


The King and Her Damosels

by 94BottlesOfSnapple



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Basically everyone’s a lady but Bombur and Gloín, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Everybody Lives, F/F, Female Balin, Female Bifur, Female Bilbo Baggins/Female Thorin Oakenshield, Female Bofur, Female Dori, Female Dwalin, Female Fíli, Female Kíli, Female Nori (Tolkien), Female Oin, Female Ori, Female Thorin, Genderbending, Happy Ending, Hobbit Culture, Kili is almost literally genderblind when it comes to Elves, Misgendering, No one can tell Dwarf gender, Not even Bilbo (especially not Bilbo), Smaug is a dick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:46:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 83,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3444260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/94BottlesOfSnapple/pseuds/94BottlesOfSnapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of The Hobbit where both Bilbo and all the unmarried Dwarves are ladies.</p><p>Not that Bilbo knows that.</p><p>Follow one wayward lady Hobbit as she traverses Middle Earth in a journey full of danger, romance, and misgendering by everyone of everyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've had a ridiculous amount of fun with this, and if any of you are waiting patiently for another chapter of 101 Ways, this is the reason there isn't one yet -- sorry! Basically, I got really tired of seeing fics where only Bilbo is genderbent, and it occured to me that, hey, it's Femslash February! So, here you go.
> 
> Most of the narrative follows Bilbo, so the Dwarves will be referred to as male for... Well, for a while. But I assure you, they are ladies.

_You asked me once if I had told you everything there was to know about my adventures. And while I can honestly say I've told you the truth, I may not have told you all of it._

_Where, I wonder, to begin? Oh, my story is as long and winding as my life, I think, but it is so much bigger than I am. Then again, being born a simple Hobbit of the Shire, there are a great many things bigger than I. For me, that tale begins with a hole in the ground, where there lived a Hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole full of worms and oozy smells. No, this was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort._

_But if I am being honest, and though I did not learn this until I was far on my way into my adventure, it all truly began, if things can ever ‘truly begin’, long ago in a land far away to the east, the like of which you will not find in the world today._

_There was the city of Dale, its markets known far and wide, full of the bounties of vine and vale, peaceful and prosperous. For this city lay before the doors of the greatest kingdom in Middle-Earth: Erebor, stronghold of Thrór, King under the Mountain and mightiest of the Dwarf-Lords. Thrór ruled with utter surety, never doubting his house would endure, for his line lay secure in the lives of his son and beloved eldest granddaughter._

_Ah, Erebor! How to even explain this splendor, so very different from the sensibilities of Hobbits, Men, or Elves? Angular and towering and bright, a thing that reveled in its on craftsmanship.  Built deep within the mountain itself, the beauty of this fortress city was legend. Its wealth lay in the earth; in precious gems hewn from rock, and in great seams of gold running like rivers through stone. The skill of the Dwarves was unequalled, fashioning objects of great beauty out of diamond, emerald, ruby, and sapphire. Ever they delved deep, down into the dark._

_And that is where they found it: the Heart of the Mountain..._

_The Arkenstone._

_Like a Silmaril of legend, it shone deep from within, brightening and scattering all the light that entered it into glittering rainbows. The most precious gem the Lonely Mountain had to offer._

_Thrór named it the King's Jewel and he took it as a sign; a sign that his right to rule was divine. All paid homage to him, even the great Elven King Thranduil._

_But the years of peace and plenty were not to last. Slowly the days turned sour and the watchful nights closed in. Thrór's love of gold had grown too fierce and sickness had begun to grow within him. It was a sickness of the mind, subtle and slippery and difficult to combat. Even his precious grandchildren could not tear him from his visits to the treasury, which lengthened day by day under influence of his sickness._

_And where sickness thrives, bad things will follow..._

_The first they heard was a noise like a hurricane coming down from the North. The pines on the mountain creaked and cracked in the hot, dry wind. It was a fire-drake from the North._

_Smaug had come!_

_Such wanton death was dealt in Dale that day, for this city of Men was nothing to Smaug. His eye was set on another prize, deep within Erebor’s green halls, for dragons covet gold with a dark and fierce desire. Erebor was lost then - a dragon will guard his plunder as long as he lives._

_The dwarves of Erebor streamed from its ruined gates, past the blackness of dragon-smoke. So many dead, though the royal family were not among them. Even Thrór, whose madness had urged him back into the treasury even as the dragon plundered it, lived to see the ruin dealt by the end of that day, for his granddaughter, the Crown Prince of Erebor, went back to drag him from the showers of gold scattered by the dragon’s fierce glee. As she fled her home, the prince shouted, called for aid from the Elves of Mirkwood._

_But Thranduil would not risk the lives of his kin against the wrath of the dragon. Wisely or cruelly, no help came from the Elves that day._

_Or any day since._

_Robbed of their homeland, the Dwarves of Erebor wandered the wilderness, a once-mighty people brought low._

_The young Dwarf prince took work where she could find it, laboring in the villages of Men, a blacksmith with no title and little coin to her name, to build a future for her people. But always she remembered the mountain smoke beneath the moon, the trees like torches blazing bright, for she had seen dragon fire in the sky and a city turned to ash._

_And she never forgave..._

_And she never forgot._


	2. A Morning To Be Good On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo Baggins, the mistress of Bag End, has an even more unexpected gentleman caller than usual.

It was not every day that one saw Bilbo Baggins, the lady of Bag End, rushing from her home with her apple-cheeks flushed and her coppery curls – so often tied back with a strand of ribbon – in disarray. Her apron was askew over her green cotton dress, and traces of flour decked her hands and face, for it was Trewsday, and that meant baking day.

“Hamfast Gamgee, you young scoundrel! Get back here with that seed cake!”

Though she shook her fist at the curly-haired tween, Bilbo did not seem all too particularly angry. In fact, were one looking close enough, they might see the hint of a smile touching the corner of Mistress Baggins’ lips. If only because she knew the Gamgee boy had darted off to share his spoils with bonny Bell Goodchild.

Holman Greenhand, gardener of Bag End, scratched his head as he leaned on his eternally-muddy garden hoe.

“Rambunctious lad,” he mumbled, tossing the lady of Bag End an apologetic look for the actions of his apprentice-slash-cousin.

Knowing all about troublesome young cousins, Bilbo just smiled and rolled her eyes.

“Fauntlings,” she agreed.

With a puff of half-concealed laughter, Holman nodded and continued his gardening. However, when after a few moments Bilbo was still leaning against the front gate, Holman spoke again.

“Now, not that it’s my place, Miss Baggins, but I reckon it might have to do with how often Master Paladin comes a’calling,” he huffed out. “Nothing but trouble, that youngster!”

Bilbo, being already quite energized and also used to such commentary, laughed aloud.

“I suppose that makes it my own fault then,” she commented, shaking her head. “For inviting his parents around so often.”

“Oh, well,” the gardener wheedled. “If that’s the case, t’wasn’t me what said it.”

“Of course not, Holman.”

And with that, Bilbo shook her head and returned indoors to her baking.

 

By second breakfast, the lady of Bag End had managed to finish baking her pies. Cleaning herself off of dough and flour, she put on a shawl and went down to market. It was a very fine day in the Shire, she noted with a bit of a skip in her step, and she felt like fish for supper.

One of the Brandybuck lads had a fairly good haul, and she was able to haggle him down to five silver pennies for one of the smaller fish, just right for a Hobbit dining alone.

“Have a lovely day, Alaric!”

“You too, Miss Bilbo!”

Then, after greeting a couple of neighbors, she headed on back to Bag End.

 

Having finished a rather nice elevensies and quickly checked on Holman’s work for the morning, Bilbo sat herself in the front yard of Bag End to enjoy the breeze while she stitched patterns on a blanket for Menegilda and Rorimac Brandybuck’s first child. Saradoc was his name, if she rightly recalled. A strapping young boy they could be proud of. She smiled at the thought.

“I’ll have to invite them over for tea soon,” she mused aloud.

And then a shadow passed over her, too dark and small to be a cloud. Someone, someone tall, was standing outside her yard.

Bilbo paused in her needlework, looking up at the tall Man who had stopped outside her front gate with a respectably suspicious squint. Wearing long gray robes and a large, pointy gray hat, he cut a both shifty and downright ridiculous figure. He did not seem to notice Bilbo’s glare, however, content to simply lean on his large walking stick – or staff, as she would later come to realize – and stare at her home.

“Good morning,” she greeted at last, suspicious but not so much as to forego common courtesy.

The interloper seemed puzzled by this greeting.

“What do you mean?” he asked, voice low and gruff, the kind of voice that came of smoking too much pipe-weed. “Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning. Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?”

That, Bilbo felt, was entirely too much thought to put into a greeting as innocuous as ‘good morning’. In fact, the old Man’s odd presence and interrogation had all but spoiled whatever it was that _had_ been good about the Hobbit’s previously peaceful morning. Still, she supposed they were all questions one might be expected to ask if one didn’t instinctually know the meaning of a ‘good morning’. After a moment of contemplation, she offered him an answer, unsettled.

“All of… them at once, I suppose…?”

The Man let out a little puff of air, a hum of appraisal. Bilbo was quite sure she didn’t like _that_. And though she had answered the only question – or rather rapid series of questions—he had asked, the gray-clad stranger did not leave. Bilbo cleared her throat, tucking her needle into the cloth so it wouldn’t be lost.

“Can I help you?” she inquired with the kind of stiff politeness she usually reserved for unpleasant gentleman callers.

The Man hummed again.

“That remains to be seen. I,” he told her gruffly with a twinkle in his ancient eyes, “am looking for someone to share in an adventure.”

That just about startled Bilbo off her bench, and her jump knocked the embroidery hoop from her lap. Additionally, she had accidentally tried to swallow and breathe at the same time, and the endeavor ended in several short coughs.

“W-well,” she said hurriedly, snatching up her work and clearing her throat, “you’ve certainly come to quite the wrong place for that! No, I don’t imagine anyone west of Bree will be looking for an adventure.”

She dusted off the green cloth with fervor to avoid the Man’s stare. He just stood there, silent, observing her, and the Hobbit puffed out several irate breaths. To further keep herself from his piercing gaze, Bilbo bent to snatch the mail from the mailbox at her gate.

“Nasty, disturbing… Uncomfortable things!” she insisted with a noise that was half scoff and half polite laugh. “Make you late for dinner!”

Even as she turned to enter Bag End she could feel his stare on her. But there was nothing for it, and stomping into her Hobbit hole without another word would be wholly indecent, even to someone so… Off-putting.

“Good morning!” she snapped at last, irately.

“To think,” said the roughened voice of the Man, “that I should live to be ‘good morning’ed by Belladonna Took’s daughter, as if I were selling buttons at the door!”

Bilbo froze, right hand crumpling the fabric of Saradoc’s unfinished blanket and left crumpling her letters. It had been a long, long while since anyone had directly mentioned Belladonna to her daughter. Just who did this Man think he was—

But wasn’t that just the question. Who exactly _was_ this?

“I _beg_ your _pardon_?” the Hobbit asked tensely, shoulders hunched like a cornered animal as she turned to face him again.

The Man looked disappointed, if not a little forlorn, as he leaned against his walking stick.

“You have changed, Bilbo Baggins. And not entirely for the better.”

The words caused a tightness in her chest, and Bilbo pressed her lips into a thin line. She had most certainly heard words the like of _that_ before, but usually only from uptight relatives, who had no particular _right_ to comment on whether or not she were _less social_ in the _wake_ of her own mother’s _death_.

“I’m sorry,” snapped Bilbo, who was not particularly sorry at all, “do I know you?”

Something about the look in her eyes brought a soft fondness to the Man’s old face. He sighed gently.

“Well, you know my name,” he told her, smiling mysteriously. “Although you don’t remember I belong to it. I’m Gandalf! And Gandalf means… Me.”

And with a blink, everything in the scene in front of Bilbo seemed to shift before her eyes. Where before had stood a wandering, wizened old Man, there was instead a riddle-fond, too-amused wizard. He appeared much younger, and yet much, much older the longer she looked. Yes, she did know his name. Very well in fact.

“Gandalf,” she greeted slowly, heaving a sigh and loosening her previously-tense grip on her mail. “Yes, the wandering wizard who used to do those marvelous fireworks at the Old Took’s birthday parties. I’ve not seen you for over two decades; I’d no idea you were still in business!”

Gandalf’s fuzzy gray eyebrows lifted almost to the brim of his gray hat.

“And where else would I be?” the wizard wanted to know.

Bilbo blinked, opened her mouth, and then cleared her throat uncomfortably because it was probably not quite in good taste to tell a wizard – whether or not he was powerful – that one thought he’d come quite to the end of his years and had surely croaked by now. Gandalf gave her a look that said he knew exactly what she’d been about to say. Bilbo let out a couple of short, nervous laughs.

“Yes, well,” she dithered.

Gandalf chuckled, though it didn’t do much to put Bilbo at ease.

“Well,” he told her, “I am pleased you remember something about me, even if it’s only my fireworks.”

Bilbo’s mouth dropped open.

“Only?” she squeaked, then cleared her throat. “Why, they’re the best entertainment in all the Shire! Even Camellia Sackville couldn’t find a thing to say against them!”

The smile that unfurled beneath Gandalf’s beard was both exasperated and fond. _Hobbits_ , it seemed to say. But no matter that he himself saw his fireworks of such little importance, they had been part of many fond childhood memories for Bilbo. The Hobbit shifted her burdens so that the blanket and letters were in one hand, and she could smooth out her skirts with the other.

Gandalf nodded, seemingly having come to a decision.

“It’s decided, then. It’ll be very good for you,” he said, wagging his index finger at the Hobbit frozen on her front steps, “and most amusing for me. I shall inform the others.”

“Inform the who?” Bilbo stammered. “What?”

And she regretted bitterly letting her guard down and getting caught up in the past so easily. She’d allowed Gandalf to get her off topic and then swoop in with ridiculous notions like _adventures_ again! So much for pleasant chit-chat! Honestly!

“No, no, no!” she insisted hurriedly, slashing her free hand across the air in a firm denial. “We do _not_ want _any_ adventures here! Not today, not—”

Her voice stumbled over the words ‘not ever’ and Bilbo bit her bottom lip. She cleared her throat.

“I suggest you try Over the Hill or Across the Water,” the Hobbit attempted, trying to shoo the wizard from her stoop as she scurried for the door. “Good morning!”

And though it was far from the most decent sendoff she’d given someone, she felt no regrets when she slammed Bag End’s green door behind her. Heaving a sigh, she leaned against it, tipping her head back to rest on the door too.

“Wizards,” she grumbled.

A sudden scratching noise started up, cutting through the air like nails on glass. Bilbo jumped, but was not about to risk opening the door to find just _what in Yavanna’s good name_ the wizard was doing out there. Instead, she scurried into her study to bury herself among her manuscripts, and thought no more of unsavory things like wizards or adventures for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The extra blank lines will indicate, throughout the story, either a shift in time or a shift in which character we're following. As it's in third person the entire time, hopefully you'll easily be able to pick up which is which. I'll also be inserting sections that specifically follow Thorin, which will be bolded and in present tense because apparently that's the only way Lady Thorin wants to be written.
> 
> Also! Bonus points to anyone who can guess what the title of the story is based on; it's obscure, but good.


	3. An Unexpected Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo settles down for a nice, one-Hobbit meal, and suddenly finds herself host to twelve rowdy Dwarves and a wizard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, I've not gone into how the lady Dwarves look different from their movie counterparts, and it's not going to come up until Bilbo's realization at the beginning of DoS, so here's how I imagine it. They've got the same amount of facial hair, I've got no problem with that considering the beards on some of these ladies: media.tumblr.com/7250ef62ae9c376fcb15d8fa6be8152f/tumblr_inline_mi711r3hhW1qz4rgp.jpg
> 
> That said, the thing that has changed is their facial structure, which Bilbo does not yet have the foresight to look beyond their beards to. Rounder cheeks, softer jaws, not-as-wide foreheads, less fuzzy (though still thick) eyebrows, etc. Since they're all dressed in men's clothes for easy travelling, and considering they're off on a dangerous quest and all, there's no cleavage showing either. So, there you have it!
> 
> I might end up doing some sketches to help illustrate what they look like later.

Having endeavored to forget her morning guest, Bilbo was unprepared as she sat down to her supper of fish for the ringing of the doorbell. Expecting no visitors for the remainder of the evening, she had dressed down considerably; she’d removed her apron, let her hair fall as it would around her shoulders and down her back, and taken off her bodice. Highly inappropriate attire for visitors of any sort, of course, so she darted to her bedroom to snatch up a robe. She cinched it around her waist as she bustled back to the front door and opened it.

Bilbo wasn’t sure what she had been expecting when she opened the door – Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, come to criticize her state of dress? A Took cousin up for an unexpected supper? Gandalf back to stir up trouble? A pack of Hobbit-eating Wargs? – but it was certainly not a huge, inked Dwarf with axes on his back.

She near fainted, but years of her mother’s odd visitors left Bilbo with enough sanity in the face of this unexpected event to lean on the door until she got her bearings. The Dwarf bowed slightly.

“Dwalin, at your service,” he offered in a gruff tone.

Obviously, responding would be the polite thing to do. But when Bilbo opened her mouth, all that came out was a startled squeak. The Dwarf blinked.

“Bilbo… Baggins, at—at yours,” she managed unsurely, sketching a bow to match his.

The Dwarf – Dwalin, she could remember that, Dwalin, it was so _rude_ to simply call someone by their race when you knew their name, really – nodded and strode right inside without any sort of preamble that could have been considered an invitation on Bilbo’s part.

“D-do… That is, do we _know_ each other?” she asked, though quite certain she would remember having the life almost scared out of her before.

Dwalin shot her a look like she was some kind of idiot.

“No.”

Bilbo frowned. Then opened her mouth to ask in which sort of society one came bursting into the homes of people they didn’t actually _know_ , who weren’t actually _expecting them_. And then she abruptly closed it again because, well. She didn’t exactly fancy getting on this strange character’s bad side.

“Which way, lass?” he demanded, striding further into Bag End. “Is it down here?”

“Is—is what down where, exactly?” the Hobbit asked, brows furrowed in confusion.

She wondered if Dwalin were a bit, well, touched. She couldn’t imagine any land where his behavior could be considered precisely _normal_ or _respectable_.

“Supper,” Dwalin replied, shucking his coat and dropping it to the side of the door before piling his weapons in Bilbo’s small arms. “He said there’d be food and plenty of it.”

He?

“H-he said?” she tried, closing the front door with a soft click and setting the weapons down on a chest. “ _Who_ said?”

But Dwalin, having already found the kitchen – and Bilbo’s as yet untouched supper – settled in like he owned the place and did not respond. A feeling of complete and utter dread filled the pit of Bilbo’s stomach. If Gandalf had anything to do with this…!

But the Dwarf had been promised food. And he ate like one starved. It reminded Bilbo, with a pang, of the way the fauntlings had devoured any food given to them the Spring following the Fell Winter. She stood back uncomfortably, such thoughts plaguing her mind, and watched him eat her supper. She did, however, have to wince as he tore off the fish’s head with his teeth and swallowed that too.

“Very good, this,” Dwalin said with his mouth half-full. “Any more?”

Bilbo’s stomach panged with the loss of food, but no proper Baggins would let a guest go hungry – it simply wasn’t done! So she picked up a platter of rolls from the ledge by her kitchen window and carried them over to set down in front of her guest.

“Help yourself,” Bilbo told Dwalin, thankful the manners her parents had drilled into her were all but automatic.

When he reached for the rolls on the table, taking two in a single fist, Bilbo made sure to subtly snatch one for herself. It was embarrassing to feel one had to sneak food in one’s own house, but well, there you had it.

And then the bell rang again.

“That’ll be the door,” grunted Dwalin, pausing in his eating.

His eyes were narrowed at her in a very clear challenge. One she really was not willing to take. So with a pained smile, Bilbo trotted off to her door once again, crossing her fingers that it was Gandalf so she could get things set straight.

 

Dwalin shoved another roll in her mouth as the Halfling darted to the door. A wee thing. Was she really the burglar Tharkûn had in mind for their journey? Dwalin knew, of course, that dangerous things could come in small packages. But the lady of the house had seemed utterly flustered.

And only one plate out for supper?

Though perhaps, Dwalin admitted with a trace of shame, she had caught the Hobbit in the middle of plating up food? Or perhaps in the Shire one served themselves… The Halflings were such strange folk. But Mahal, their food was delicious. She hadn’t just been giving a compliment to her host out of politeness – not that some people thought she actually _had_ any of that – because though she’d as yet not satisfied her hunger, Dwalin hadn’t eaten so well in…

She actually couldn’t remember, and it brought a tightness to her chest.

A void she was prepared to fill with another roll when her hand reached out and found that the tray was empty. Oh. Well then. Stomach still rumbling, she glanced around. There, on a shelf, was a jar full of more baked goods.

That’d do.

She tugged the jar down and jammed her hand inside. Impeded by her knuckle-dusters, however, her large fingers couldn’t quite reach the topmost of the muffins within.

Damn.

 

Bilbo opened the door.

It was not Gandalf.

Instead, a white-haired Dwarf stood before her. He was small and well-dressed. No weapon to speak of, thankfully. And the way he smiled was a little comforting at least. He made an odd little curtsy motion that she wasn’t sure how to interpret.

“Balin, at your service,” he greeted charmingly.

Bilbo, for her part, did not feel inclined to have anyone else ‘at her service’, nor did she desire to offer her own to yet another unexpected guest. So she just smiled thinly and said,

“Good evening.”

Balin blinked. Then he looked up at the night sky, as if truly contemplating what sort of evening it was.

“Yes,” he told her cheerfully, “yes it is.”

Bilbo wondered if perhaps greetings based on the time of day were not as common out in the wide world as she had first suspected. Then she sighed.

“Though,” the white-haired Dwarf added with a slight frown, “I think it might rain later. Am I late?”

This, at last, would hopefully provide her with a chance to glean some answers.

“Late for what?” she asked as Balin stepped inside.

But he had already spotted Dwalin – with a hand in the cookie jar, as it were, though the jar itself was filled with muffins – and he did not deign to answer her. Bilbo squeezed her eyes shut and counted to three.

“Evening, Dwalin,” Balin said laughingly as he swaggered into the kitchen doorway.

“Balin,” Dwalin greeted with a wide grin. “By my beard! You’re wider and shorter than last I saw you!”

“Wider,” the elder Dwarf corrected with only a slight smile at the teasing. “Not shorter. And sharp enough for both of us.”

Bilbo continued to stand at the open door to her home and watch them, flabbergasted. One Dwarf was strange and off-putting enough, but two? Certainly _that_ could not be chalked up to coincidence, especially since they seemed to be siblings if she considered their rhyming names and camaraderie. And though Balin was altogether smaller and more agreeable, that didn’t change the fact that this sort of thing – whatever it already was and whatever it was becoming, indeed – simply wasn’t done!

In the middle of her displeased musing, Balin and Dwalin cracked their heads together sharply. The Hobbit jumped, alarmed, but neither seemed the worse for wear. That being determined, Bilbo closed both her mouth and her front door, and stuffed the roll she had salvaged into her mouth before either of them got any ideas about it.

But the second they wandered into her pantry, Bilbo knew she simply could not wait for Gandalf. She’d have to pull herself together and set things right on her own. Straightening her back and tightening the belt of her robe, she stepped up behind them.

“L-look, I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but I really don’t think you—that you’ve got the right house,” she insisted, fidgeting and fretting and wondering what her extended relations would have to say about such forwardness. “Really, it-it’s not that I don’t like visitors, really. I do, as much as the next Hobbit. But I generally also like to, ah, to know them _before_ they come visiting, you see.”

The two Dwarves continued talking amongst themselves, rifling through the front of her pantry, and Bilbo’s heart thudded loudly in her chest at the thought of looming confrontation. But she had to be firm! So she raised her voice just slightly.

“The thing is, I-I don’t know either of you in the slightest,” Bilbo insisted, strained.

The conversation stopped. Both Dwarves looked at her, blinked, and then turned back to filling a tankard with ale. Twisting the end of her robe’s belt between nervous fingers, Bilbo opened her mouth again.

And then the bell rang a third time.

Bilbo left her pilfering guests to her ale and opened the door again, all but pleading with the Valar for there to be a wizard on the other side.

Once more, she was disappointed.

And doubly so, because on the other side of her front door were two more Dwarves, not simply one. They looked much younger than the previous two, she noted, and both quite well-armed. Their faces were pleasant, and she thought to herself that the bright spark in their eyes reminded her a little of her numerous Brandybuck cousins, and that if it weren’t for the fact that she was – by her own count – overrun with Dwarves as it was, she might not mind two such lads coming up for tea sometime. Provided they’d been invited, of course, and that, well, she and they actually knew each other.

“Fíli,” said the one on her left, whose hair was styled neatly into sets of symmetrical yellow braids.

“And Kíli,” added the dark-haired Dwarf next to him, making a serious face.

“At your service,” they said in unison, attempting the strange half-curtsy Balin had made.

Was it a Dwarf thing?

She wondered if they’d decided to do the twinning bit only as they arrived at her door, or if it was a trick they employed every time they introduced themselves. But Bilbo didn’t have time for more than that stray thought, because the dark-haired one – Kíli? Yes, Kíli. Drat Dwarves and their rhyming names – was grinning sweetly.

“You must be Miss Boggins!” he exclaimed.

Bilbo took three seconds to think over her options and determined that if she let the two Dwarves before her into her home, she had little to no hope of getting either them or the other two out again on her own. She began to close her door in the youngsters’ faces.

“It’s Baggins, actually, and you can’t come in,” she told them with the sort of firm tone she used on misbehaving tweens. “I’m afraid you’ve come to quite the wrong house, sorry.”

However, Kíli stuck his large, booted foot right in her doorway so the round door could not shut. Both boys’ expressions were distraught.

“What?” Kíli demanded. “Has it been cancelled?”

“No one told us,” grumbled Fíli, mouth downturned in a suspicious frown.

Bilbo sniffed, twitching her nose slightly as she tried to figure out the best lie to give them – for clearly whatever _was_ going on with these Dwarves it hadn’t been cancelled. Though Bilbo hoped that was only a temporary problem and she could get on with cancelling it posthaste. Still, the looks on their faces were too compelling for her to lie.

“No, nothing’s been _cancelled_ , however—”

But before she could properly explain that there shouldn’t have _been_ anything to cancel in the first place and she was most certainly not ready for a parcel of Dwarves to invade her home, the two on her front step pushed their way in.

“Well, that’s a relief!” exclaimed Kíli with a big, sunshine-bright smile.

But his forcefulness and Bilbo’s stubborn attempt to hold the door closed without quite making it clear that that was what she was attempting to do sent the Hobbit stumbling back. Her arms windmilled ridiculously for a moment, but then a large, firm hand was around her wrist. It tugged her forward so that she quite nearly smashed into the chest of her savior.

“Watch your step there, Miss Baggins,” said Fíli, releasing her, before dumping a load of weapons into her arms. “There you go. Careful with these, I just had ‘em sharpened.”

She supposed it was polite enough to at least hand off his weapons before tromping into her house, but really! It was hardly respectable to bring any arms into a Hobbit’s home, let alone so _many_ weapons. They were Dwarves, though, she supposed.

“It’s nice, this place,” commented Kíli appreciatively, looking around to admire the architecture. “Did you do it yourself?”

Bilbo, though knowing it was quite unwise to let her guard down around guests that had already made such a nuisance of themselves, felt her ears pink at the praise. To a Hobbit, a compliment on one’s smial was only just below a compliment of one’s cooking. And despite their uncouth tendencies, the Dwarves had now done both.

“Ah, no,” she stammered, “it’s been in the family for years. My father built it for my mother, see—”

Looking down she noticed, with a wince, the muddy bootprints all over her entryway. They led to Kíli, busy trying to scuff off the mud onto Belladonna’s glory box. Bilbo groaned aloud.

“Can you _please_ not do that?” she demanded loudly. “If your boots are muddy just take them off and set them by the door!”

But Dwalin had already collared the boys, slinging an arm over their shoulders and herding them into the dining room. They all at least seemed pleased to see each other. Much better than having to deal with a tussle in her halls, but still…

“Let’s shove this in the hallway,” she overheard Balin instructing the others, “otherwise we’ll never get everyone in.”

Bilbo paled. She had seated ten guests in that room with the furniture as it was. Then again, Dwarves were larger, so maybe—

“E-everyone?” she asked tentatively, though beyond the hope that any of the Dwarves would be paying the least bit of attention to her. “How many more of you are there?”

To her great dread, the doorbell rang once more, louder and longer than either of the three previous times. To avoid collapsing into frustrated tears, Bilbo got her dander up instead, puffing out her chest and molding her expression into the thunderous one Bungo had made whenever trouble came calling – as it was doing now, Bilbo thought to herself.

“Oh, no. No more! Not a single—single Dwarf more, no thank you! If this is your idea of a joke, Gandalf, I can only say it is in _very poor taste_!” she ranted, tossing Fíli’s weapons onto Dwalin’s and drawing herself up with an angry little laugh.

Then she unlatched the door, and a wave of Dwarves spilled in onto her mat.

They flailed and shouted at each other, the ones on bottom more irate than those on top. Behind them, crouched to peer inside Bag End, was the very wizard Bilbo had been cursing all evening.

“Gandalf,” said Bilbo helplessly, shoulders drooping.

What in Arda have you done this time, she wanted to ask him. But the look on the wizard’s face told her that everything was going according to plan for Gandalf. The feeling of inevitability set in again. She’d never seen Gandalf _not_ get his way, in anything. Even when an entire cake tent had to be moved during the Old Took’s birthday so the wizard could set up his fireworks in its place.

That said, there was no way she was entertaining what appeared to be a company of a dozen Dwarves in only a robe and her bottommost layers. It would be nothing short of scandalous. So she prayed to Yavanna that the Dwarves wouldn’t completely tear down Bag End in her absence and scurried off to her bedroom to re-dress.

 

Nori peered about the house, her head cocked slightly to the side. Very well-made, quite spacious; in terms of sheer square footage, anyway… There were a few tempting, well-made knickknacks here and there, but even she knew it was in bad form to steal from someone they were contracting as a burglar.

Even if the Hobbit did seem quite small and hysterical for the job to be fitting.

Also Dori was watching her every move. Nori would have liked to make a smart comment about that, but it wasn’t as if she could argue it wasn’t warranted. Instead, she followed the others to the pantry and started grabbing things to bring to the table.

“What should I take?” Ori asked, frowning in indecision.

“Whatever you can carry,” Óin insisted as she snatched up a bowl of apples.

That didn’t seem to help Ori make a decision, however. After a few more seconds watching her younger sister struggle, Nori reached up onto one of the higher shelves and brought down a plate of glazed pastries.

“Here,” she said, shoving the platter into the young Dwarf’s arms.

Ori nodded and scurried off to the dining room with her load in tow. Dori, of course, was off brewing tea. Like they needed tea when the Hobbit had ale! Nori nabbed a tankard and filled it up from the barrel in the pantry before she herded anything else to the table. They’d been long on the road, and she deserved a drink.

It didn’t hurt that she had a great – and safely distant – vantage point to see the muscles in Dwalin’s bare forearms at work. The king’s guard was especially off-limits for a ne’er-do-well like herself, but it cost no coin to look, did it? Nori took a long gulp of ale and grinned.

Really, it was the simple things in life.

 

Bilbo was still adjusting her hair, bodice settled firmly about her torso, when she wandered back into the atrium to find the entire herd of Dwarves stomping back and forth from the pantry to the dining room with all the food from her pantry.

“Wh—No—Put that back! Put that back!” the Hobbit insisted as each new platter came by.

Chicken, pastries, even fruits and greens funneled out of her pantry and into her dining room in the arms of a veritable army of blocky Dwarves. Gandalf stood in the middle of it all, apparently counting up their group.

“Fíli, Kíli, Óin, Glóin, Dwalin, Balin,” he mumbled as they passed, though too quickly for Bilbo to fit any new names to faces. “Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Nori… Ori.”

Spotting the brilliant red of her prize-winning tomatoes, Bilbo tugged them out of the hands of a pointy-haired Dwarf. Still, she had a terrible feeling they’d find their way onto the table sooner or later. Then the widest of all the Dwarves tromped past with three full cheese wheels in his chunky arms.

“Is-isn’t… Doesn’t that seem a tad excessive?” she called after him, fretting. “Do you even have a cheese knife?”

“Cheese knife?” the Dwarf with the floppy hat – was he one of the ‘ur Dwarves? – laughed. “He eats it by the block!”

Bilbo quite nearly fainted at that.

Hobbits were hearty eaters, sure, but it wasn’t as if Bilbo had visitors very _often_ , was it? Her last call had been a rather unpleasant afternoon tea with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, who had been trying to set Bilbo up with some relation of hers or other from Harbottle. Horrid woman. And the time before that, it was Adalgrim and his boy Paladin – nearly eight now, and who would believe it! – popping in for dinner on their way to Bywater, the troublemaking Tooks. Point being, her larder was simply not made to accommodate the appetites of a dozen Dwarves! It was barely enough for a week’s meals for a single Hobbit, after all!

Bilbo’s feet took her back to her lamentably pilfered pantry, and she let out a loud sigh.

“Come now, Bilbo, it’s not so bad as all that. They’re quite the merry bunch, once you get used to them,” Gandalf said in what he likely thought was a consoling tone.

“I don’t want to get used to them, Gandalf, I don’t even know what they’re doing here! You might have warned me so I’d have time to go to market,” the Hobbit fretted, trying and failing to keep her eyes on all twelve Dwarves at once and internally bemoaning her lost supper.

She was, first and foremost, a Baggins of Bag End, which meant unfailing hospitality and politeness – though she’d been shown none by these Dwarves, Bilbo thought to herself rather snappishly. It would be the height of rudeness to comment on the fact that their voracious appetites having left her without a morsel to eat. And so, Bilbo Baggins suffered her hunger silently, like any good host. The thought gave her little cheer as she watched the Dwarves eat their way through all the food in her house with an empty belly.

They ate like animals, throwing food about. They drank like children, ale running down their beards in thick streams. And they burped like, well… Like Oliphant trumpeting, to be quite honest. Bilbo wasn’t sure there was anything more to be mortified about.

And yet, after filling their bellies, the Dwarves’ behavior did not improve. They continued to tromp about her home, apparently doing whatever they very well pleased.

“Ex-excuse me…!” the little Hobbit all but shouted, knowing it was the height of impoliteness to yell at one’s guests, but not feeling she had any other options in the face of such ruffians.

“You’re excused,” answered the Dwarf with the strangely star-shaped hairstyle who was carrying an entire rope of sausage links, looped about his neck like some great greasy scarf.

Bilbo let out a frustrated huff of air. Any Hobbit with sense would understand that such an ‘excuse me’ was not actually a plea for forgiveness, but a demand for decorum. But that, she supposed, was the problem – her guests were not actually Hobbits. They were Dwarves.

Bilbo tugged at the ringlets at the very tip of her ponytail and let out a defeated moan.

“Come now, you’ll be alright,” Gandalf said as he appeared out of nowhere, bowed slightly to avoid her chandelier.

“Gandalf, just look at-at the state of my house! Mud all over the carpets, an empty pantry, I’m not even going to-to tell you what they’ve done to the bathroom!” the Hobbit stammered in short, angry bursts, beside herself. “ _Why_ have you done this to me?”

One of the Dwarves, posture hunched and closed up, cleared his throat shyly to interrupt.

“Excuse me,” he began politely, and Bilbo startled to hear such manners considering what the night had been like so far, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but what should I do with my plate?”

But before Bilbo could tell him to please stack it in the kitchen, Fíli slid the plate away.

“Here you go, Ori,” the blond said amiably. “Give it to me.”

And then he tossed it. Bilbo let out a small, wordless shriek, but instead of smashing against anything, the dish landed neatly in Kíli’s hands. Who, in turn, flung it into the kitchen.

“Excuse me! Is that _completely necessary_?” Bilbo demanded, fisting her hands in her skirts.

Gandalf ducked out of the way of an oncoming bowl with a chuckle and a ‘whoa’. Unheeding, the two dwarves began to get more elaborate with their throws; Fíli bounced the dishes off his arms and shoulders while Kíli kicked them up with the inside of his calf.

Those Dwarves still sitting at the table began to bang their fists – knife and fork in each hand – down on the table before clanging the utensils together. It was rhythmic, and reminded Bilbo a little of the clapping games young Hobbit girls played in their parents’ gardens.

“Can you please not do that,” Bilbo groaned, distraught. “You’ll blunt them!”

“Ooh, hear that?” the Dwarf with the hat laughed, grin as wide as a crescent moon. “She says we’ll blunt the knives!”

That startled a laugh from young Kíli, who started up a chanting song.

“ _Blunt the knives, bend the forks!_ ” he called, spinning and twisting as he caught dishes Fíli tossed him and directed them into the next room.

“ _Smash the bottles and burn the corks!_ ” Fíli supplied, a smirk – which would otherwise have been quite charming – twitching into place under his moustache.

And then, as if by some strange cue, the other Dwarves joined in without missing a beat.

“ _Chip the glasses and crack the plates!_

_That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!_ ”

“That is my mother’s West Farthing crockery!” Bilbo cried shrilly as dishes flew above her head. “They’re over a hundred years old!”

But the Dwarves simply kept singing and laughing and tossing – and in the case of the largest Dwarf, sitting at the back end of the table and scraping off residual food from the dishes, eating. Bilbo scurried about, wanting to put a halt to their game but knowing that putting herself in the line of fire would only result in injuries all around. Even Balin was participating, she saw with dismay, bouncing smaller dishes off his plate and into the atrium.

“ _Cut the cloth and trail the fat!_

_Leave the bones on the bedroom mat!_

_Pour the milk on the pantry floor!_

_Splash the wine on every door!_ ”

“If you think taking such liberties in – in another person’s home is a great joke, well you have another thing coming…!” she warned, wagging her finger at them.

Gandalf, for his part, was calmly blowing smoke rings for the Dwarves to toss cups through. The Dwarf with the black-and-white braids – that is, the one with the axe buried in his head! – grabbed Bilbo’s hand and deftly spun her out of the way of a misfired bowl. The Hobbit cried out in dismay at its trajectory, straight towards a wall. However, at the last second, the rude Dwarf with pointy hair – something ‘ri, Nori maybe? – slipped into the dish’s path, slinging it with minimal effort back into the fray.

It was only then that Bilbo noticed she was still in the arms of the Dwarf who had saved her from being brained with her own dish. He made several subtle and completely unintelligible hand movements before uttering something in harsh syllables. Very likely Khuzdul, the Dwarfish language, but it was something of a well-guarded secret so Bilbo had no idea what he was trying to convey. At last he just patted her head with one large hand and slipped into the kitchen.

“ _Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl;_

_Pound them up with a thumping pole;_

_And when you've finished, if any are whole,_

_Send them down the hall to roll!_ ”

Bilbo made to storm towards the kitchen too, as it seemed to be where all the dishes were ending up, but was stopped momentarily by Dwalin’s intimidating bulk. The Hobbit drew herself up with the heat of her indignation, but one quirk of an eyebrow had her deflating instantly.

Until he snatched a fork out of the air, twirled it once around his squarish fingers, and flung it behind him into the kitchen with an almost challenging smirk. Bilbo’s small hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.

“No table manners is one thing, but this is abominable!” she scolded, bustling past Dwalin, skirts swishing. “Were you lot raised in a barn?!”

“ _That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!_ ”

At this last, Bilbo managed to push past Fíli – currently lifting a tankard of ale to his mouth; at least his third in the last quarter hour, the glutton! – and she skidded to a halt in her kitchen to find all the dishes clean and neatly stacked.

“I take offense to that, Miss Baggins,” said Kíli, who apparently had only made an honest mistake of her name before.

“That’s right, we were raised in a mountain!” the Dwarf with the floppy hat – honestly, she needed to figure out his name, he appeared to be the most trouble besides Fíli and Kíli – called out, grinning.

Bilbo let out a loud sigh, sagging in relief that her dishes lived to be used another day. The Dwarves – and Gandalf, drat him – all laughed uproariously.

Then there were three firm knocks on the door and all mirth ceased immediately.


	4. Song of the Lonely Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo Baggins meets one Thorin Oakenshield, refuses a quest, and faints rather spectacularly, though not precisely in that order.

“It seems the final member of our Company is here.”

Bilbo’s eyes went wide. Everyone hurried out to the main hall, the Hobbit included, but Gandalf had already opened the door. To reveal another Dwarf. Of course.

“Gandalf,” said the dark-haired Dwarf at the door with a small note of wry relief, an almost amused glimmer in his eyes as he dipped his head and glanced up at the wizard. “I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way… Twice. I doubt I would have found it at all but for the mark on the door.”

Bilbo, though frazzled to her last wit, managed a slight involuntary smile at the dry humor in her final guest’s expression. And then she processed his words.

“Wait, my—Gandalf, what did you do to my door?!”

The wizard merely chuckled.

“Bilbo Baggins,” he told her, “allow me to introduce the leader of our Company, Thorin Oakenshield.”

The truth was that her first thought had been that the newcomer was beautiful. It was true enough that while she didn’t know much about Dwarven aesthetic standards, the younger boys – Fíli and Kíli – were of a handsome sort, but this was different.

Thorin was… Something deep inside her chest quaked, and Bilbo wondered if it was her Took half, pleased because he looked like a figure of legend. His bearing was rigid but noble, and his blue eyes were the most serious sort, framed with dark lashes and a stern brow.

Magnificent and unreal and beautiful, for all that his Dwarfish stature was strange and too rugged for any sort of Shire beauty.

And then he had to go and open his mouth again.

“So, this is the Hobbit?” Thorin asked imperiously, circling her with his hands folded behind his back. “Tell me, Miss Baggins, have you done much fighting? Sword or axe, what is your weapon of choice?”

Bilbo flushed and bristled under the attention – as if she were some prize tomato! It was rude and humiliating and… And his eyes were too intense to meet. She stumbled over her words.

“W-weapon? No, I’ve never…! Of course I haven’t—I mean, that is, I’ve some skill tossing stones, and any Hobbit lass worth her salt can get in a good wallop with a broom or walking stick, but I _hardly_ see how that’s relevant…!”

The insulting chuckle that passed Thorin’s lips – echoed by the group gathered behind him – made Bilbo want to throw all of the _ridiculous_ Dwarves from her home immediately, but she simply didn’t have the gumption.

“As I thought,” Thorin mused, glancing back at his company. “She looks more like a milkmaid than a burglar.”

Bilbo drew herself up indignantly, silently wishing them all a severe bout of food poisoning. Which was highly inhospitable of her, but any Hobbit in the entire Farthing might have done much the same after faced with such outright rudeness. A milkmaid, indeed! Not that there was anything wrong with milkmaids, honest sorts they were, but Bilbo was the lady of Bag End, the head of the Baggins line – the granddaughter of the Old Took himself!

“Well I should hope I look nothing like a burglar!” she snapped, having completely lost control of her decorum. “Since I am nothing of the sort! Gandalf, what in Yavanna’s name is going on here, I should like to know!”

“You’re to join our quest as fourteenth member and be our burglar,” Fíli explained, almost gently, seemingly having realized how clueless their host truly was.

Kíli appeared at his brother’s shoulder suddenly, grinning like a loon.

“You might say, you’re being contracted as our… Robbit!” he teased.

“Kí _li_!” Fíli groaned.

“Me?” Bilbo protested. “But I’ve never—”

“Bilbo, my dear lady, why don’t we let Thorin eat a bit of supper before we get into the specifics?” asked the wizard soothingly, wisely attempting to use the necessity of good manners to dissuade his host from further anger.

Bilbo deflated almost immediately.

“Gandalf, I’ve nothing _left_ in my pantry—”

Dwalin stepped forward, handing Thorin a bowl of stew and a plate with a couple thick slices of bread.

“Saved you some before this lot got to it all,” he explained to his leader with a jerk of the head back at the other Dwarves.

Thorin ducked his head and offered the slightest of smiles – just the barest upturn of lips – in return. And if Bilbo’s heart skipped a beat in her chest, well, no one had to know. He settled down at the head of the table, and all the other Dwarves took seats as well.

Thankfully, Bilbo, with an impatient tug on Gandalf’s sleeve, was able to get him to hurriedly rattle off the names of all the Dwarves for her, pointing out which went to each. She had a feeling she’d never remember them all, but it was worth a try.

“What news from the meeting in Ered Luin?” Balin asked as Thorin began to eat. “Did they all come?”

Bilbo wasn’t sure quite what that meant – sure, she knew Dwarves had a settlement in the Blue Mountains, and assumed that was where her uninvited guests had come from, but what were they having meetings about?

Thorin nodded, setting his spoon down.

“Aye,” he told them. “Envoys from all seven kingdoms.”

The table erupted in a sea of murmurs, and all the Dwarves looked elated at that news. Bilbo stood back by the doorway, a passive listener with no place in their excitement. Dwalin leaned forward, dropping his fist on the table.

“What do the Dwarves of the Iron Hills say?” he demanded insistently. “Is Dain with us?”

The way Thorin’s shoulders hunched just slightly told the whole story, at least to Bilbo who was in a position to see them.

“They will not come,” he admitted, and the table broke into dismayed rumblings. “They say this quest is ours, and ours alone.”

“And what quest is that?” asked Bilbo.

She’d meant the tone to be a bit accusatory but had become far too curious, and the irritation was gone by the time the words hit her mouth. Gandalf pulled a piece of paper from the folds of his robe and spread it flat on the table.

“Bilbo, my dear Hobbit, let us have a little more light,” suggested the wizard.

As she bustled off to get a candle and quickly return, Gandalf began to speak. His tone was slow, almost reverent, but loud enough for Bilbo to hear as she moved.

“Far to the East, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands,” he said, “lies a single solitary peak.”

Bilbo leaned over the page, holding the candle so that the firelight hit it.

“The Lonely Mountain,” she read slowly, studying the map with eager eyes.

She’d never seen anything quite like it. Maps, charts, and manuscripts of Dwarf-make were a rare thing in the wide world, but especially in the Shire. Like the Dwarfish languages, their texts were heavily guarded.

“Aye. Óin has read the portents,” Glóin said proudly, gesturing at his brother, “and the portents say it is time.”

Bilbo’s quick eyes caught Dori and Nori both making faces and rolling their eyes. But then she was distracted by Óin.

“Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain,” he proclaimed, straightening into a self-important posture, “as it was foretold. ‘When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the best will end’.”

Bilbo’s eyes caught on the fire-spewing dragon etched above the Lonely Mountain on Gandalf’s map and she bit her lip.

“Ah, uh, what beast…?” the Hobbit asked, backing away from the group just a bit.

“Well,” began Bofur matter-of-factly, ticking descriptions off on his gloved fingers, “that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meathooks, extremely fond of precious metals—”

Bilbo puffed up a bit, peeved.

“Yes, I _know_ what a dragon is, thank you very much,” she informed him curtly.

“ _I’m_ not afraid,” Ori piped up, standing, with a fist in the air. “I’ll give him a taste of Dwarfish iron right up ‘is jacksie!”

Bilbo’s mouth turned up at the corner, but a sick feeling filled the pit of her stomach. It was hard to tell with Dwarves, beyond simply young and old, but Ori’s shy, simple manners had impressed upon Bilbo that he was quite possibly the youngest of the lot. And the idea of someone so young – practically a tween – facing down a dragon… It didn’t sit well with her.

Dori, it seemed, shared her sentiments, at least.

“Sit down!” he hissed, yanking his brother back into his chair by the arm.

“The task would be difficult with an army behind us,” added Balin, expression grim. “But we number just thirteen. And not thirteen of the best or brightest.”

That, of course, set off the rest of the Dwarves. They shouted at one another, standing, shaking fists and fingers, braids swinging wildly. Well, all but Óin, who was holding his ear trumpet to his ear and attempting to find out what Balin had said to start such a fight.

Then Fíli slammed a fist onto the table.

“We may be few in number,” he shouted, “but we’re fighters, all of us, to the last Dwarf!”

The group looked to be rallying to that, and Kíli shot up too, to add his piece.

“And you forget, we have a _wizard_ in our Company!” he said eagerly, gesturing at Gandalf. “Gandalf will have killed _hundreds_ of dragons in his time!”

Bilbo turned to gauge the wizards reaction to a statement like _that_. For the first time that night, a startled look crossed the old troublemaker’s face. Bilbo couldn’t say she was quite _pleased_ but the feeling was close enough. It was nice for someone else to be flustered, too.

“Oh. Well, now, uh,” Gandalf waffled, “I-I wouldn’t say that, ah—”

“How many, then?”

That was Dori, again, she thought. A worrier. Not that there was no reason to worry.

“What?” asked Gandalf, in a way that clearly portrayed he really did not want an elaboration on the inquiry.

Dori, however, was not about to let him off.

“How many dragons have you killed?” he pressed. “Well, go on, give us a number!”

It was at that point that Gandalf, keeping his mouth firmly closed, began to cough on the pipe-smoke accumulated in his mouth. Though they’d seemed to Bilbo at times a cross between outright dim and purposely ignorant, none of the Dwarves could deny what the wizard’s silence meant.

Another table-wide row broke out, louder and longer than the first.

As a host, Bilbo thought, it was probably in her interests to try and reestablish peace.

“Ex-excuse me,” she tried. “Excuse me!”

It was admittedly only about as effective as every other time she’d said ‘excuse me’ that night. Meaning, not at all.

“ _Shazara_!”

Everyone fell silent, eyes locked on Thorin. He stood, chin tucked to his chest, palms flat on the dining room table.

“If we have read these signs,” he started dangerously, “do you not think others will have read them too?”

The Dwarves looked between themselves as though that thought had not occurred to them at all. Thinking that was becoming characteristic was a little _too_ rude, however, she decided, even after the poor treatment she’d suffered at the hands of her guests.

“Rumors have begun to spread,” Thorin said, looking around at his Company. “The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look East to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?”

The Dwarf threw up a fist, shaking it and chanting.

“Du Bekâr! Du Bekâr!”

More Khuzdul, surely. And by the affect the words were having on the other Dwarves, it was some form of rallying cry. Truthfully, even Bilbo was feeling a bit excited, her heart pounding rapidly in her chest. As far as leaders went, he was clearly an impressive one, even if he was exceedingly rude. Whether she was part of their mad quest or not – and she was most certainly leaning towards _not_ – with a leader that could invigorate them so well, maybe they had a chance of defeating even a dragon.

“You forget,” cut in Balin, slicing through the gathering’s euphoria like a blade. “The front gate is sealed. There is no way into the mountain.”

“That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true.”

Gandalf had the twinkle in his eyes back. For once, however, it didn’t seem it was going to spell trouble for Bilbo, and she thanked Yavanna for _that_. The wizard flipped a key out into the open, twisting his wrist outward. It was angular and strange, covered in Cirth runes. Obviously of Dwarven design. Bilbo wondered if it had been hidden up Gandalf’s sleeve, or whether he had perhaps pulled it from his beard.

Thorin seemed equally fascinated by the key. He reached for it slowly, then paused.

“How came you by this?” he demanded.

Gandalf, perhaps sensing Thorin’s hesitation, pressed the key into the Dwarf’s large palm.

“It was given to me by your father, by Thráin, for safekeeping,” the wizard explained gently. “It is yours now.”

Bilbo had the distinct feeling something very important had happened, more than just a handing over of a key. Her hand drifted to her throat, and the silver chain there. Yes, it was certainly something more. Her fingers slid down the chain to the two small rings looped over it, and she stroked them with the side of her thumb.

“If there’s a key,” Fíli began slowly, “there must be a door.”

Bilbo’s lips twitched, and she _almost_ smiled. Only decades of copying grumpy Mr. Chubb from down the lane’s scowl allowed her to school her features into something that wasn’t immediately mocking. Gandalf seemed to take no notice of the overly obvious observation, and gestured to the map with his pipe.

“These runes speak of a hidden passage to the lower halls.”

“There’s another way in,” Kíli said softly, placing a hand on his brother’s back and grinning.

Gandalf snorted.

“Well, if we can find it,” he said with a frown, “but Dwarf doors are invisible when closed. The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map and I do not have the skill to find it.”

That sounded a bit hopeless, really – but then Bilbo’s mind jumped to Elrond, the lord of Rivendell, who her mother had told her was a great scholar. And Gandalf’s next words seemed to confirm this.

“But there are others in Middle Earth who can,” he said, folding his arms. “The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage. But, if we are careful and clever, I believe it can be done.”

“That’s why we need a burglar!” Ori exclaimed, as if just realizing this bit of logic.

Bilbo crossed her arms over her chest defensively.

“You mean it to be me?” she asked skeptically. “I’ve never stolen a thing in my life!”

Balin and Dwalin both voiced their agreement that she was not right for their quest. Bilbo accepted it if only to get her out of Gandalf’s meddling, but her chest still panged a bit at the insults. Once more, the Company began to argue.

At once, Gandalf stood, drawing himself up to a massive height.

“ _Enough_! If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar she is!” the wizard shouted with a voice like a wild storm.

The walls of Bag End creaked and groaned, and a great shadow filled the room. Bilbo’s breath caught in her throat, and she trembled from the top of her curly head to the tips of her furry feet. And then all at once, Gandalf seemed to shrink, returning to the wandering firework-peddler and general-mischief-maker she had always known him as.

“Hobbits,” the wizard explained gently, as if to faunts, “are remarkably light on their feet. In fact they can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of Dwarf, the scent of Hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage.”

Well. That at least made some sense, Bilbo supposed. But the idea of being smelled by a dragon was not exactly about to set her jumping with joy to chase after Gandalf’s ‘merry’ little crew. No, she was a Baggins. And while she had hosted all thirteen of the wizard’s mad Dwarves with good grace of the highest Shire order, that was the last she wanted to see of them.

“You asked me to find the fourteenth member of our company, and I have chosen Miss Baggins. There’s a lot more to her than appearances suggest, and she’s got a great deal more to offer than any of you know. Including herself,” Gandalf added knowingly when Bilbo opened her mouth to protest his talking her up.

She sighed and deflated. There was simply no fighting him on the subject verbally, it seemed.

“You must trust me on this,” Gandalf said emphatically, directing himself to Thorin.

“Very well,” Thorin acquiesced gruffly. “We’ll do this your way.”

“Oh, no, no really, I do not—” Bilbo attempted to insist.

But when it came to Gandalf, things were often impossible to stop. Gandalf was, well, a force to be reckoned with. Unfortunately. Still, she could try!

“Give her the contract,” Thorin ordered.

Balin pulled out a folded sheet of paper, and Bilbo held up both hands, palm out in a ‘stop’ motion.

“Now—now see here…!” she stammered.

Bofur let out a guffaw.

“Oh, come on, lass, there’s nothing to worry about! And anyway, Glóin and my brother are already married, and with dwarflings to boot, so!”

“Look, I’ve no idea what that’s got to do with anything,” Bilbo retorted snappishly, stumbling backwards and brandishing her index finger like a weapon, “but I think you lot have got quite the wrong idea here!”

But when Thorin passed the contract over his head and pressed it at her without even looking, Bilbo found herself accepting the sheaf of paper. And then, well… She was curious. She stepped into the atrium where the light was better and began to read, mumbling the words aloud to keep tabs on the flowing script.

 

**Thorin still isn’t sure what to make of the Hobbit. She’s high-strung. Her home is a place of comfort for her, one the Dwarf king doubts she will be willing to leave, even with Tharkûn’s machinations. Thorin hasn’t known a home like that in…**

**She leans towards the wizard, who is also watching Bilbo, so that no one overhears them.**

**“I cannot guarantee her safety,” she tells him.**

**“Understood.”**

**The response is instant, despite the fond way Thorin has seen the wizard look at his chosen fourteenth member. She’s not sure he understands what she means by her words.**

**“Nor will I be responsible for her fate,” Thorin presses.**

**There is a longer pause this time. The Dwarf king’s blue eyes flick to Tharkûn, and find the wizard’s gaze deeply troubled. He heaves a sigh, and nods at last.**

**“Agreed.”**

 

“Terms,” Bilbo mumbled to herself. “Cash on delivery, up to but not exceeding one fourteenth of total profits, if any.”

After a moment’s thought, she shrugged.

“Seems fair.”

Being the fourteenth member of the company, them giving her a full share of the treasure was certainly generous. Not that she was considering joining onto their ridiculous endeavor, of course. Still, she continued reading. Out of intellectual curiosity, obviously. It wasn’t often one got to read legal documents written by another race.

“Present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof, including but not limited to…” she read, but then the text ran out and Bilbo had to flip out the paper, which went on double the width of the rest of the contract; not promising. “Lacerations… Evisceration… Incineration.”

She pulled a face. It made sense, of course, what with there being a dragon involved on the quest, but… Still. Not a lovely way to go.

“Oh, aye!” Bofur piped up helpfully. “He’ll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye!”

The thought of _that_ sort of end was enough to make her feel ill. And remind her that it had been a good few hours since last she ate, and even then all she’d managed was a roll snatched away from her first hungry guest. Bilbo felt a bit jarred high in her head and oddly hollow everywhere else.

“Think furnace, with wings!” the Dwarf continued, flapping his hands like said wings.

That wasn’t all so intimidating, but Bilbo was a bit dizzy with hunger and her mind was supplying something much more terrifying than a _furnace_. A scattering of coins, claws as large as she was scraping over stone and treasure and _flesh_. The sweltering heat of dragonfire, enough to make the air wave and shimmer. Enough to draw the breath from her lungs.

Bilbo swayed.

“Flash of light, searing pain, then poof!” he exclaimed cheerfully, making a wide gesture with his hands. “You’re nothing more than a pile of ash!”

And at that moment, her overactive imagination partnered with her distinct lack of supper and the poor Hobbit slumped against the wall.

“Oh my,” she managed faintly, just before her vision went blurred, then dark.

 

Kíli started as the burglar hit the ground. The sound hadn’t come with a crack on the head for the Hobbit, thankfully – she had heard other races did not have the same hard heads as Dwarrows.

“Oh, _very_ helpful, Bofur,” Gandalf grunted sarcastically, standing and staring down at Bilbo with his hands on his hips.

Kíli glanced at her sister, and saw Fíli’s normally jovial face pressed into a frown.

“It doesn’t bode well,” the blonde murmured, “if she’s fainting already.”

Kíli had nothing to say to that, but her expression dropped. Bifur ambled over and picked up the tiny creature and then looked at the rest of them for direction. There was a long silence. Then a loud growl rent the air, and when the Dwarrows all turned their ears to it, they found themselves staring at their host, cradled in Bifur’s arms.

“Sounds right hungry,” Glóin noted stiffly.

Kíli glanced around, and found the others frowning guiltily just as she was as the thought occurred to them. They’d not seen Bilbo eat a thing all night. A pit formed in Kíli’s stomach as she recalled the dismay in the Hobbit’s voice when she protested her emptied larder to Gandalf.

“Hobbits are very particular about their mealtimes,” the wizard explained, studying the unconscious Hobbit. “I had assumed she would have eaten by the time you arrived.”

Dwalin suddenly tensed, ears bright pink – in shame, it looked like, though Kíli had never seen her ashamed before – and shuffled her feet.

“Speak, Dwalin,” Thorin ordered in her Scolding Voice.

The guard cleared her throat and straightened her posture. The dark-haired princess was childishly glad to have her aunt’s harsh looks directed at someone else.

“Well, I. That is, when I arrived at Mistress Baggins’ place. She was just stammerin’ and not makin’ much sense, but if she really wasn’t expecting us, I may have eaten her supper,” she managed at last, scowling and all but daring one of the others to scold her. “I didn’t know she’d not have anything prepared!”

At that, Dwalin sent a scathing glare to the wizard. He, for his part, ignored her.

“Why don’t you take Miss Baggins into the parlor, just there?” he suggested, gesturing in a direction.

Bifur followed dutifully, with a bounce in her step. Dori, meanwhile, had grabbed a plate from the kitchen and begun to scour the ruins of the pantry. Kíli snatched a dish off the table, one set out for Thorin which still had a few pastries, and hurried to help.

 

Bilbo awoke curled in her armchair in the parlor, alone.

And then a couple of Dwarves shuffled in.

It was Dwalin, shockingly, who offered Bilbo a plate. She’d assumed that the food saved for Thorin was altogether the last in her whole larder. However, the rather hulking, inked Dwarf managed to look almost properly shamefaced while handing over what looked to be the odds and ends of Bilbo’s pantry.

“I didn’t know you wouldn’t be expecting us,” the Dwarf said with some silent insistence from his gray-haired companion – Dori? Yes, Dori. Honestly, she still wasn’t quite clear on names of those in the big pileup at her front door, but she recalled his words in the dining room meeting. “So I s’pose t’was me who ate your share of supper.”

Bilbo managed a weak smile and accepted the food.

“Thank you.”

Mercifully – despite any other commonly-gossiped-about oddities of temperament – Belladonna had drilled table manners into her daughter, so Bilbo managed to eat without completely stuffing her face. With the addition of food, the Hobbit’s stomach settled and she didn’t feel quite so faint and dazed.

Then Gandalf approached, handing her a cup of tea.

“I’ll be fine,” Bilbo insisted in what she considered a rather generous attempt to be pleasant, “just let me sit quietly for a bit and I’ll be right as rain.”

“You’ve been sitting quietly for far too long, Bilbo Baggins!” Gandalf scolded. “When did the state of your floors and your mother’s heirlooms become so important to you?”

And though he didn’t appear to be finished with his tirade, Bilbo broke in anyway, utterly irate.

“I should think you’d know why I place such importance on my mother’s things, thank you very much!” she snapped, mouth twisted at the corners as if she’d sucked on a lemon. “I haven’t got much left of her, have I?!”

The wizard’s expression softened then, his eyes liquid and empathetic like the old Man he pretended to be.

“My dear Bilbo,” Gandalf said at last, “do you really think this is what Belladonna would have wanted for you? To cling to her memory and never have any adventures of your own? The world is not in your books and maps. It's out there.”

He gestured to the nearest round window, and Bilbo’s heart lurched in her chest.

“Well, I-I can't just go running off into the blue!” Bilbo protested, clutching her cup of tea until the knuckles on her hand turned white. “I don’t know if you’ve quite grasped it, but I am not the fauntling I once was, out searching the woods for Elves! I am a _Baggins_ of _Bag End_!”

“You are also a Took,” responded the wizard.

He gestured vaguely at a sketch – one of Bungo’s, actually, who had taken great pleasure in recreating old family portraits for Belladonna’s delight – of Bullroarer Took that her mother had always been extremely fond of.

“Did you know that your Great-Great-Great-Great Uncle Bullroarer Took was so large he could ride a real horse?” Gandalf asked.

“Yes,” Bilbo answered promptly, having heard such of him dozens of times.

Like a silver penny, those words always turned up – the one thing everyone in all the Shire knew about Bandobras Took was his exceptional height. It almost irked her for the wizard to be bringing up such a worn-out bit of family lore for the express purpose of tricking her into going off on some mad adventure.

“Well he could!” Gandalf exclaimed, as if Bilbo’s flat response indicated disbelief. “In the Battle of Green Fields, he charged the Goblin ranks. He swung his club so hard it knocked the Goblin King's head clean off, and it sailed a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit hole. And thus the battle was won and the game of golf invented at the same time.”

Bilbo narrowed her eyes. She had heard, a great deal of times, about the Battle of Green Fields. But no one had embellished it quite so, not even her fanciful mother. The Hobbit let out a rather rude snort of disbelief.

“I do believe,” she scoffed, “that you _completely_ made that up.”

The wizard’s guilty smile as he settled in the chair across from her was all the confirmation she needed.

“Well,” Gandalf mused in his smoke-roughened voice, looking a bit put out to have been caught at his meddling, “all good stories deserve embellishment. You'll have a tale or two of your own to tell when you come back.”

If I come back, Bilbo thought, the corners of her mouth tightening. She took a long sip of tea to sort herself.

“Can you promise that I _will_ come back?” she asked him at last, staring down into what was left of her tea and feeling a mixture of dread and inevitability creep up her spine.

Gandalf did not answer her, so at last she looked up. The wizard’s shoulders were hunched and his gaze was troubled in a way she’d never seen before. At last, he shook his head.

“No. And if you do, you will not be the same.”

Bilbo smiled sadly, shaking her head.

“That’s what I thought. Sorry, Gandalf, I… I can’t sign this,” she told him, patting the contract, which sat conspicuously on the small round table next to her armchair. “I’m not my mother. You’ve got the wrong Hobbit.”

Then she stood and retreated from the parlor.

 

**“Well, there goes our burglar,” Balin says with a sigh, shaking her head as she watches the Hobbit storm away from Gandalf. “Probably for the best. The odds were always against us.”**

**Thorin tenses, crossing her arms across her chest, but listens. It is always wise to listen to Balin’s advice, she’s found, even if she doesn’t end up taking it.**

**“After all,” the older Dwarf continues with a wry smile, “what are we? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toymakers… Hardly the stuff of legends.”**

**Thorin notices Balin has not counted herself among these professions and her lips attempt a smile.**

**“There are a few warriors among us,” the Dwarf king reminds Balin fondly.**

**Balin just snorts and rolls her eyes.**

**“Old warriors.”**

**But Thorin’s heart is racing with kingly love, and hope for their quest that is not undermined by the fickle whims of a Hobbit burglar. She shakes her head and glances down the hall at the rest of their Company.**

**“I would take each and every one of these Dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills,” Thorin insists resolutely, “for when I called upon them, they came. Loyalty, honor, a willing heart… I can ask no more than that.”**

**And she can’t. Balin, and Dwalin, who have been with her since before she could recall. Fíli and Kíli, her precious nieces and heirs – who had fought their mother tooth and nail, an arduous battle if ever one existed, to be allowed to come along on the quest. The sisters ‘Ri, who would not take no for an answer – Dori’s arms across her chest after a display of sheer physical strength that even Dwalin couldn’t match. Óin and her _portents_ , marching up to Thorin with ear trumpet in hand. Gl **óin** following after with a full coin-purse and a put-upon sigh. Bofur and Bifur, one rowdy, the other quietly insistent. And worried Bombur, leaving his wife and blessedly numerous children to look after his sister. There is not a single one of them she would replace.**

**“You don’t have to do this,” Balin presses, her brow creased with familiar worry. “You have a choice.”**

**Her words ring like a plea, and that more than anything is a blow to the chest. Balin speaks of this quest as a suicide mission, one they cannot hope to complete. She speaks as if Thorin is throwing her life away.**

**“You’ve done honorably by our people,” the white-haired Dwarf continues. “You have built a new life for us in the Blue Mountains, a life of peace and plenty. A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor.”**

**But it isn’t the gold she’s after. It’s important, yes, but what Thorin craves are wide halls, a mountain for her people to truly call their own again. She runs her thumb over the runes on her father’s key, then holds it out to Balin.**

**“From my grandfather to my father, this has come to me,” she says, does not say ‘destiny’ but means it. “They dreamt of the day when the Dwarrows of Erebor would reclaim their homeland. There is no choice, Balin. Not for me.”**

**She will do this without her advisor’s aid, she means, even if she does not want to. Thorin will not, for anything, let Smaug keep Erebor. Not when she has, finally has a chance to save her home. Balin’s expression is still sad, but she does not turn away. Instead, she claps Thorin on the shoulder.**

**“Then we’re with you, lassie,” she says firmly. “We will see it done.”**

 

Bilbo had retreated to her room, content to simply wait out her unwanted guests. She had pulled Bombur aside – for he appeared the most to be a combination of both calm and amiable – and explained to him where the Dwarves could find her spare room and guest room, which were on opposite sides of the house. She would converse with them no more than that, though Dori – silver-haired with intricate braids – politely offered her a spot next to him in the parlor, where the Dwarves had begun to congregate.

She was sitting on her bed, having removed her bodice and with her hands in her hair to slip the ribbon from it, when a low rumbling echoed through the halls of her home. It was a deep vocalization, started by one voice and picked up by others until the walls rang with it. The little hairs on the backs of Bilbo’s arms stood up, and she rubbed them as if she had a chill.

“ _Far over the Misty Mountains cold  
To dungeons deep, and caverns old_ ”

Before she realized quite what she was doing, the Hobbit had sprung from her bed and started towards the sound. With silent feet, she padded through her study, and back out into the atrium.

“ _We must away ere break of day_

_To seek the pale enchanted gold._ ”

It was then that Gandalf spotted her, for he was seated in the kitchen, smoking as he listened to the Dwarves sing. He must have seen something in Bilbo’s eyes that pleased him, because he smiled. _  
  
_ “ _The Dwarves of yore made mighty spells,_  
_While hammers fell like ringing bells_  
_In places deep, where dark things sleep,_  
_In hollow halls beneath the fells._ ”

She ignored the knowing look on the wizard’s face, and settled in the doorway of the kitchen and atrium. Close enough to hear perfectly, but not to let the Dwarves see her. Half because she worried they’d stop if they knew she was listening, and half because she did not want Thorin’s blue eyes to mock her again. _  
  
_ “ _For ancient king and Elvish lord,_  
_There many a gleaming golden hoard_  
_They shaped and wrought, and light they caught_  
_To hide in gems on hilt of sword._  
  
_On silver necklaces they strung_  
_The flowering stars, on crowns they hung_  
_The dragon-fire, in twisted wire_  
_They meshed the light of moon and sun._  
  
_Far over the Misty Mountains cold_  
_To dungeons deep and caverns old_  
_We must away, ere break of day,_  
_To claim our long-forgotten gold._  
  
_Goblets they carved there for themselves_  
_And harps of gold; where no Man delves_  
_There lay they long, and many a song_  
_Was sung unheard by Men or Elves._  
  
_The pines were roaring on the height,_  
_The winds were moaning in the night._  
_The fire was red, it flaming spread;_  
_The trees like torches blazed with light._  
  
_The bells were ringing in the dale_  
_And Men looked up with faces pale;_  
_Then dragon's ire more fierce than fire_  
_Laid low their towers and houses frail._  
  
_The mountain smoked beneath the moon;_  
_The Dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom._  
_They fled their hall to dying fall_  
_Beneath his feet, beneath the moon._  
  
_Far over the Misty Mountains grim_  
_To dungeons deep and caverns dim_  
_We must away, ere break of day,_  
_To win our harps and gold from him!_ ”

The harmonizing voices rattled in Bilbo’s chest cavity, stirring – by proxy – her heart. Their singing brought to her waking eyes sights of high-vaulted caverns and stone webbed with rivers of gold. The hot burst and lingering burn of dragon flame. Sitting just outside the room her unexpected guests had all gathered in, Bilbo pressed a soft palm to her mouth and tamped down on a sob. Slow tears trickled down her face and Gandalf – both solemn and kind-eyed – handed her one of her handkerchiefs to dab at her cheeks.

Bilbo wasn’t sure when her eyes eased closed that night, but Thorin’s rumbling mountain song haunted the empty corners of her dreams. She swore, somewhere in the darkness, she could still hear him, singing softly.

“ _Far over the Misty Mountains cold_  
_To dungeons deep and caverns old_  
_We must away, ere break of day,_  
_To find our long-forgotten gold…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used the longer, book version of the Misty Mountains song, because, well... I thought it was a real shame they didn't do more than a couple verses in the movie.
> 
> If you've been wondering about the descriptions of Bag End's layout, I've used a rendering of Bag End's floorplan that Weta Workshop has for sale as my reference: https://www.wetanz.com/floor-plan-of-bag-end-parchment-art-print/
> 
> My brain keeps adding in more Dwarf-pov sections, so I hope you guys find them as enjoyable as I do. I also hope you're able to bear with Thorin, as I said before she insists on being written present-tense, so I've bolded her to hopefully avoid confusion.
> 
> The next chapter will (finally) start us on our quest!


	5. Sixteen Ponies on a Green Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo Baggins steps out her door, bets are placed, we learn that drinking songs can be sung even without ale, and a tale is told of a battle long ago.

Bag End was utterly silent when Bilbo awoke with a crick in her neck, sitting with her head against the kitchen doorway and covered in one of her spare blankets.

Gone. They were all gone.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she murmured as she wandered cautiously through the house and found each successive room empty.

And not just that, but cleaned and with the furniture rearranged into their original positions. As if Bag End had never been invaded by Dwarves.

And yet, when her eyes caught on the unsigned contract, her heart fell. Bilbo’s mind reeled back to her tween years, to her mother’s look of Tookish pride and the fond sparkle in her father’s eyes despite the worry with which he clenched the stem of his pipe between his teeth. And for the first time since her parents’ deaths, Bilbo Baggins ached for something, fiercely.

 

The door to Bag End slammed open so loudly that three separate Hobbit families peeked out their doorways to see what in Arda was the matter.

“Holman!” Bilbo called, hurriedly snatching up her walking stick from the hall with one hand, the other full of the ream of parchment that constituted her contract with the Dwarves. “Holman Greenhand, my good fellow!”

“Yes ma’am?” the gardener asked, scratching the top of his curl-laden head. “Where you off to in such a ruckus?”

Hamfast Gamgee peered out from behind his cousin, eyes wide. The travelling pack on Bilbo’s back was quite large, and Yavanna above, the lady of Bag End was in trousers, of all things!

“An adventure!” Bilbo crowed, hopping her front gate. “Would you mind terribly looking after Bag End for me? Don’t let those dratted Sackville-Bagginses in for anything, understand! Only I’ve made a quick jot of a will! The place’ll go to Drogo if I’m not back! Not to worry, it’s all arranged!”

By that point, she was halfway down the lane, hopping off the road itself and over houses and gardens alike. Holman had to shout his response to her fading back, which was both startling and highly irregular.

“As you say, Miss Baggins!”

And with that confirmation, Bilbo picked up her pace even further, darting down the road and out of Hobbiton. Then up the hill trotted Adalgrim Took, doffing his gentlemanly hat and whistling in shock.

“My! Look at Miss Bilbo go!” he exclaimed. “Where’s she off to in such a hurry, d’you suppose?”

“Said she’s gone adventuring!” Hamfast piped up.

“Yavanna’s skirts! Adventuring at her age?” Adalgrim demanded, humoring the boy. “That’s quite the tale! Wait til my young Paladin hears!”

Holman Greenhand just sighed in a put-upon manner and went back to weeding the flower bed. While grumbling about youngsters might ease him, truth was that Miss Bilbo Baggins was two years his elder. Tooks, he decided with a shake of the head. Nobody to blame but the Tooks.

 

“Oughtn’t we have waited to see if she changed her mind when she woke up?” Ori asked hesitantly, barely a mumble to Óin’s old ears.

Thorin scoffed louder, but Dori’s was nearer to her sister. Óin, however, had seen the look in Tharkûn’s eyes as they left, had seen him place the contract very carefully on the Hobbit’s parlor table. Then Nori rode up beside her.

“You look like you’re raring for a bet,” the thief said loudly, a glint in her eyes.

And Óin might have been old, but she wasn’t above making easy money.

“Aye, lass, put me down ten gold coins on the Hobbit showing up yet,” the healer insisted.

Glóin groaned, something about wasting their money, as if he had a share in the coin she’d brought along for herself. The self-important twit. She was the elder sibling for a reason. As if the reputation of their family could have survived an eldest child who was such a clod. He had a head for business, though, she’d give him that. A tightfisted clod, but a clod nonetheless.

“I too, would like to place a bet on Miss Baggins,” cut in the wizard with a twinkle in his eye.

Oín was so busy keeping both her balance and her ear trumpet that she missed most of the other bets placed, though young Kíli had ridden up next to her and was avoiding her elder sister. Likely, the dark-haired lass was for the Hobbit, and her fair sister against. Nori made no bet, simply collecting the pot to be doled out. And more than likely plucking a coin from each, Óin thought wryly, the scamp.

Bets made, they continued on with no conversation but Dori’s grumbling, which Óin found simple enough to tune out without her ear trumpet in. Hearing loss could be a blessing after all, Mahal be praised.

Except that she did not hear the Hobbit approach, only stopped her pony when those in front of her did. And then Óin saw the wee lass – garbed in the clothes of her people’s menfolk, a sound choice, true Dwarven style really – as she brandished the contract at Balin. The advisor studied it with her glass and a careful eye as Óin inserted her ear trumpet to get the gist of what was going on.

 

“Welcome, Mistress Baggins, to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield,” Balin said grandly, with a twinkle in his eyes.

Bilbo’s cheeks were already flushed with the exertion of chasing a troop on pony, but they warmed even more as several cheers went up throughout the group. Then her eyes caught on Thorin’s expression, which was stern and unimpressed, and she felt her stomach drop like a rock. Oh. Well then.

“Give her a pony,” he grunted at last, before turning back forwards in his saddle and continuing on.

Bilbo blanched. The ponies looked nice and gentle enough, but the last time she’d ridden on the back of an animal she had been no more than eight and sitting on the back of a sleepy old cow Farmer Maggot Sr. was bringing to market. Also horsehair made her sneeze something awful.

“Oh, no, no,” she called with a twitching, forced-pleasant smile. “That will, ah, not be necessary! Really, I’ve done my share of-of walking holidays, we Hobbits are built for foot-travel, you know—”

It was in the middle of a nervous laugh that two of the Dwarves rode up on either side of her – leaning over and grabbing her rather rudely by the upper arms – and hauled her right onto the back of a spare pony.

Bilbo had very little time to think about how very _not alright_ the entire situation was before Gandalf was at her side, seated atop a full-sized horse.

“Come on, Nori, pay up.”

Bilbo blinked as a small bag flew past her, and twisted atop the pony to see where it’d gone. Óin had caught the clinking purse with a smirk, and tucked it into his saddlebags.

“One more!” called Kíli, and Nori flung another bag in his direction.

Bilbo narrowed her eyes. Something was mighty suspicious…

“What’s that all about?” she demanded briskly of Gandalf.

The wizard was smiling indulgently, the way he always did when in the company of people causing trouble.

“Oh,” he told her offhandedly, “they took wagers on whether or not you’d show up. Most of them bet you wouldn’t.”

She noticed he’d not included himself, but highly doubted that would have kept him from betting.

“And what did you think, then?”

Gandalf’s smile was guilty, and though he had been pressing her all the prior day to go along on the adventure, she almost thought he had bet against her. Not that he would have been alone, apparently. But her refusal had been made pretty clear. And then the wizard’s hand shot up, and a sack of coins sailed into it. He tucked it away and smiled at her.

“My dear Bilbo, I never doubted you for a second.”

She knew better than to be pleased by that, since he’d been attempting to manipulate her into going the entire time, but felt a small smile cross her face anyway. It was hard to be mad at a being who disguised himself as a codgy, troublemaking old Man. In the midst of her foolish sentimentality, she let out a large sneeze.

There were a few chuckles from the Dwarves, but Bilbo didn’t feel the need to bother with that. No, she needed to pull out her—

Drat. Handkerchief.

“Wait!” she called out. “Stop, we must go back!”

It wasn’t too far, surely, and she’d run the whole way. No proper Baggins went running off into the blue in general, but if one hypothetically did as she was literally doing, they would at least have the decent sense to remember their handkerchief! The entire caravan of Dwarves had stopped, and Gandalf looked a bit bemused at the commotion.

“My dear Hobbit,” he said with a furrowed brow, “whatever is the matter?”

“I-I’ve forgotten my pocket-handkerchief,” she admitted, and it suddenly sounded foolish to her ear.

There was a sound of tearing cloth.

“Here!” Bofur exclaimed cheerily, and tossed her a square he had apparently ripped from one of his many layers of clothing.

She caught it, and grimaced.

“Move on,” Thorin ordered, rolling his eyes.

“You’ll have to do without pocket-handkerchiefs and a great many other things, Bilbo Baggins, before we reach our journey’s end,” said Gandalf with a patient fondness as they rode on.

The cloth Bofur had handed her didn’t look exactly, well, _clean_ , and it certainly smelled of sweat and coal. But the fact that he’d offered her anything at all, when the rest of the Company was looking at her and rolling their eyes was… Well. He was sweet.

And after another couple of sneezes, she didn’t have enough of her sense of smell left to mind how stinky the rag was. Better that than the indignity of dribbling snot all down her face.

 

It was late evening by the time they passed along the outskirts of Bree. It was quite a shock, to see the large buildings and the silhouettes of Big Folk, but Thorin and Gandalf kept them all far away from the sight of anyone that might be watching from within that town. For the best perhaps, as Bilbo had heard that Bree tended to deal in unsavory folk as well as inns with fine beds. Though the Lone-lands were not much more inviting.

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind a pint about now,” Bofur muttered from her left, though all in the party were quite aware that Thorin had no intentions of stopping before night fell completely, and especially was not about to tramp their suspiciously large company through an inn.

Bilbo twisted her makeshift pocket-handkerchief and bit her bottom lip in thought. There was no ale among their supplies, but perhaps there was another way to do a good turn for the Dwarf?

“We could sing a drinking song,” she offered at last.

That startled a laugh not only from Bofur, but from several of the company.

“And _you_ know drinking songs?” asked Dwalin skeptically, though in the dimming light he at least appeared amused at the thought.

Bilbo puffed out her little chest, and would have crossed her arms but that she still feared falling from her pony.

“I’ve _composed_ a few, I’ll have you know!”

That, at least, seemed to catch the Dwarves’ attention.

“Well, go on then,” Nori urged with a tilt of his head. “Sing us one.”

And though the sun was getting quite low in the sky, Bilbo was able to see even Thorin was glancing at her. She tugged on her tied-up curls and cleared her throat.

“I-I’m not much for… That is, my voice—”

“No excuse!” Fíli called out. “Kíli still sings, even if it’s like a dying Orc!”

“Hey! _I_ don’t sing like a dying Orc, _you_ do!” the brunette protested, scowling.

“Go on, lass,” urged Balin.

Even Gandalf was smiling encouragingly, so the Hobbit cleared her throat again.

“Well, alright,” she agreed with a moment’s thought as to which song she might use.

At last, she decided on the silly nonsense ditty she’d come up with for a couple of her cousins after they came of age and hurried her down to the Green Dragon to drink with them. It seemed fitting, to sing a ridiculous song for ridiculous Dwarves. And though a little shy of having her work heard by a group that had, for the most part, not even expected her to come with them, she thought Bofur especially would be pleased.

And if she could manage to bring even a rude smirk to Thorin’s face, that might be nice too. She’d hated his insults the night before, but there was still something very beautiful about his face when it was mirthful.

And it would serve him right to end up with her drinking song stuck in his head!

“Here, then. It’s rather too long, but it’s still catchy, if I do say so myself,” the Hobbit prefaced, clearing her throat.

The Dwarves leaned in as best they could while still keeping balance and continuing to ride.

“ _There’s an inn, there’s an inn, there’s a merry old inn,_

_Beneath an old grey hill,_

_And there they brew a beer so brown_

_That the Man in the Moon himself came down_

_One night to drink his fill._

_The ostler has a tipsy cat_

_that plays a five-stringed fiddle;_

_And up and down he saws his bow_

_Now squeaking high, now purring low,_

_now sawing in the middle._ ”

She sent her voice up and back down to mimic the cat’s fiddle, and several of the Dwarves roared with laughter. Bofur, for his part, had reached into his packs and pulled out his little flute, which he piped away on merrily while Bilbo continued to sing.

“ _The landlord keeps a little dog_

_That’s mighty fond of jokes;_

_When there's good cheer among the guests,_

_He cocks an ear at all the jests_

_And laughs until he chokes._

_They also keep a hornéd cow_

_As proud as any queen;_

_But music turns her head like ale,_

_And makes her wave her tufted tail_

_And dance upon the green._

_And O! the rows of silver dishes_

_And the store of silver spoons!_

_For Sunday there's a special pair,_

_And these they polish up with care_

_On Saturday afternoons._ ”

Having caught on to the beat, a few other of the Dwarves clapped or slapped their thighs in time. Most enthusiastic of all was Bifur, who was all but bouncing in his saddle. All her characters introduced, Bilbo continued into the song.

“ _The Man in the Moon took another mug,_

_Then rolled beneath his chair;_

_And there he dozed and dreamed of ale,_

_Till in the sky the stars were pale,_

_And dawn was in the air._

_So the cat on his fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,_

_A jig that would wake the dead:_

_He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,_

_While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon:_

_'It's after three!' he said._

_With a ping and a pong the fiddle-strings broke!_

_The cow jumped over the Moon,_

_And the little dog laughed to see such fun,_

_And the Saturday dish went off at a run_

_With the silver Sunday spoon._

_The round Moon rolled behind the hill_

_As the Sun raised up her head._

_She hardly believed her fiery eyes;_

_For though it was day, to her surprise_

_They all went back to bed!_ "

There was clapping as Bilbo finished out her song, and she very nearly forgot herself and bowed while in the saddle. Her eyes, however, locked on the leader of their company. He did not, at least, look grim. And as he glanced subtly around at his Company, Bilbo could imagine his gaze was really quite fond. But the second he looked her way, she ducked her head and could not meet his eyes.

“I admit defeat,” said Dwalin. “That was a fine song. But you were right about it being lengthy.”

“Aye, can’t you shorten it up a bit?” Bofur asked. “That’s far too much for us simple miners to remember!”

And so she and Bofur spent the rest of the evening until Thorin called camp at a large cliff area tweaking and cutting until the song was about a third its original length, with much input from Ori, Nori, and Dwalin – and some excited hand-signs from Bifur. As she lay on her bedroll that night, Bilbo thought to herself that perhaps adventures were not quite so terrible after all.

 

Of course, that lasted only about the first hour or two, because soon Bilbo was engulfed by the sound of loud snoring. No one else seemed that bothered by it, she noticed as she sat up, hair tussled. It was Glóin snoring, and with each inhale several moths fluttering about his sleeping face were sucked into his mouth, only to be expelled on the exhale. The Hobbit shuddered in disgust.

She stayed sitting up a few more minutes, hoping beyond hope the snoring would abate, but when it did not, she stretched and stood. A glance around revealed that Fíli, Kíli, and Gandalf were awake. Thorin was not in a bedroll, but did appear to have dozed off seated on a rock. That couldn’t be comfortable, the Hobbit thought to herself. Could it?

With little else to do, Bilbo wandered over to her pony – Myrtle. She’d taken the liberty of naming the ponies, as none of the Dwarves had thought to do so themselves. The particularly proper brown one that Glóin rode, she’d named for her father. All in good fun, of course, but it was a little comforting to have something familiar as she headed out on this strange quest, even if it was only a name.

“Hello, Myrtle,” Bilbo cooed softly, petting the pony’s nose.

And though she’d squirreled it away for herself, the Hobbit couldn’t resist the pony’s big dark eyes, and pulled out an apple. Myrtle snatched it immediately, taking big chomps of the fruit.

“It’s our little secret, Myrtle,” she said to the pony with an intense, though feigned, seriousness. “You must tell no one.”

Bilbo stepped back with a grin on her face when a suddenly howl went up somewhere in the distance. She jumped. Feeling rather exposed so far from the light of their campfire, she scurried back over to the ledge Fíli and Kíli sat awake at.

 

Fíli watched their burglar approach, looking like a frightened little bunny; she’d noticed that the Hobbit, if particularly startled or attempting to work herself up to something, would twitch her nose and the image of a rabbit had come to mind quite immediately. The prince’s lips twitched slightly.

“What was that?” Bilbo asked them quietly, glancing out at the dark with a worried expression.

It seemed Kíli couldn’t resist.

“Orcs,” she immediately responded, brown eyes narrowed in false solemnity.

Another cry went up – most likely just a wolf, somewhere off in the nearby forest. But it seemed Bilbo had fallen for Kíli’s antics.

“Orcs?” the Hobbit repeated nervously.

Thorin started at that, waking, but Fíli did not notice. If she had, she might have stayed her tongue and saved herself some trouble. Instead, she nodded slowly, pulling the pipe she’d been smoking from her lips and elaborating on her sister’s falsehood.

“Throat-cutters,” the blonde insisted. “There’ll be dozens of ‘em out there. The Low-lands are crawling with them.”

Kíli nodded sagely at this.

“They strike in the wee small hours, when everyone’s asleep,” she insisted with wide eyes. “Quick and quiet; no screams, just lots of blood.”

They both managed to hold onto their masks until Bilbo turned to glance worriedly out into the dark. Then Kíli glanced over her shoulder at her elder sister and Fíli couldn’t hold in the chuckle attempting to slip past her lips. It’d been a while since she’d been able to share a joke with her sister alone. The dish-tossing at Bilbo’s house had been fun, but everyone’d got in on it. This was a more exclusive joke, and it was fun to fluster the Hobbit together.

“You think that’s _funny_? You think a night raid by Orcs is a joke?”

Suddenly the mirth ceased. Fíli winced, and tucked her gaze towards her feet to avoid Thorin’s glare. Bilbo had turned back by then, and looked a bit startled – not only to find Fíli and Kíli’s warnings naught but a joke, but also to see Thorin standing so close to her. The Hobbit looked especially tiny compared against Thorin, Fíli thought, but wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

Seeing that Fíli was not going to speak in their defense, Kíli piped up.

“We didn’t mean anything by it,” the dark-haired princess offered hesitantly.

Not that that was a legitimate excuse, Fíli thought to herself, shamed. Thorin just scoffed.

“No, you didn’t,” their aunt sneered. “You know _nothing_ of the world.”

The weight of failure sagged Fíli’s shoulders.

“Don’t you mind those harsh words,” Balin said suddenly, as if sensing her train of thought. “Thorin has more cause than most to hate Orcs.”

 

**Thorin’s anger has her storming away to the edge of camp – near the ponies – to look off into the distance. But Balin’s voice carries, and with it come memories, not dulled but sharpened with age.**

**“After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thrór tried to reclaim the ancient Dwarf kingdom of Moria,” Balin begins, and Thorin knows Bilbo must be listening with rapt attention, else Balin would have used Khazad-dûm; Moria was never a kingdom of Dwarrows, only their grave, the dark chasm from whence evil came. “But our enemy had got there first.”**

**Our enemy. Thorin can see herself, in her mind’s eye. See the ‘our’ Balin references, but does not speak of. Herself, garbed as a prince to battle and flanked by her father, grandfather, brother, and nephew. Four generations of the line of Durin, iron-willed and aching bitterly for a home. Balin, her hair longer and greyer, mouth set sternly. Dwalin, who had not yet inked her head, a coarse swath of hair cutting across it front to back; what a warrior she had made then, too beautiful and powerful for words. The legions of Dwarrows led into battle that day, so many to never come home. Balin’s voice is like a soft background noise, and does not overtake the sudden clashing of metal ringing in the king’s ears and the heat of battle-driven blood behind her eyes.**

**“Moria had been taken by legions of Orcs led by the most vile of all their race: Azog the Defiler.”**

**Thorin can see him in her waking eye, towering above her, a sickening grin full of pointed teeth. Red eyes that spelled death.**

**“The giant Gundabad Orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin. He began by beheading the king.”**

**Hot tears prick the corners of Thorin’s eyes. The rough, guttural Orkish shout, that monster with her grandfather’s head held aloft… Never in her bitterness, or pain, or fear, had she wished such a fate upon him. Even after the dragon, the sickness, the way he had looked at her like a stranger. She had never wanted this for him. And then the head, once set proudly on broad shoulders she had thought carried the world, tossed aside like so much refuse, bouncing along the ground, skittering broken armor, to land at her feet.**

**“Thráin, Thorin’s father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing, taken prisoner or killed, we did not know,” Balin continues. “We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us.”**

**She can tell that Balin is building up to something, in the back of her mind knows this. But her thoughts are taken with what Balin has left from the story, details too painful to share with a stranger. Thorin is thankful to her for this, even as the erasures haunt her as a sort of dishonor to her kin. Their kin. To her brother Frerin, who had died defending the son who had fallen immediately after him. His skull split, blood matting his dark hair. And his son beside him missing an arm, the other still clutching a blade tightly as if that would save them all.**

**“That is when I saw a young Dwarf prince, facing down the Pale Orc.”**

**The reverence in Balin’s tone is unmistakable, undeserved. It only makes tears streak down Thorin’s face faster. She has had plenty of practice to rein in sobs, and she uses it now.**

**“One Dwarf, standing alone against this terrible foe, armor rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield,” continues the white-haired Dwarf.**

**And even as all this is true, it feels like a lie. She did not face down a terrible foe like a fearless hero. She threw herself at her grandfather’s murderer in grief and rage. Her blood had burned and her soul had ached.**

**“Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken. Our forces rallied and drove the Orcs back. Our enemy had been defeated. But there was no feast,” Balin says softly, tone growing dark and sour with pain, “no song that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived.”**

**She could still remember the smell in the air. Acrid and evil. The piles of bodies so high they could not all be buried in proper fashion. The corpses of her family burned, like the bodies of Orcs, though with much more dignity and far from the fell stench of those monsters burning. No well-wrought tomb for Frerin, son of Thráin and his son Naín IV. Nor for their grandfather Thrór. Balin and Dwalin, heads pressed together as they sobbed for loss of Fundin their father, sisters split by many decades, united in grief.**

**“And I thought to myself then,” Balin finishes, and the reverence is back in a way that makes Thorin’s heart swell with love even as she feels a fake. “there is one I could follow. There is one I could call king.”**

**She lifts a hand to her face, slowly, checking to see that it is dry. It is, and she turns at last back to the camp, only to see her entire Company standing, staring at her. Tales had been told of her exploit, yes, of her epithet, Oakenshield. But she doubts greatly any of these Dwarrows has heard the tale from someone there. None of the survivors of Azanulbizar enjoy telling the tale of that day. Balin especially does not.**

**But she has done so for a reason, Thorin understands, and straightens her posture further, standing as a king as she strides back through their ranks. Dwalin’s expression is unchanged, except the tightness of pain around her eyes. But the others, her companions, even her nieces look a little awed. It will give them morale.**

**“And the Pale Orc?” says a small voice suddenly. “What happened to him?”**

**Bilbo looks up at Thorin’s approach, eyes a bit wide in a way that makes Thorin’s shoulders tense with an unbidden desire to protect this small, foolish Halfling that has followed them inexplicably on their quest.**

**“He slunk back into the hole from whence he came,” Thorin tells her bitterly, though the question had been directed at Balin. “That filth died of his wounds long ago.”**

**She does not like to speak of the Pale Orc long, to brood on him. So she turns away and returns to her previous perch, expression shuttered and dark to avoid any more interaction. It works well enough, for only Dwalin comes to sit beside her, and even she says nothing.**

**The night passes this way, and though Thorin drifts, she does not truly sleep.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I find myself rather fond of Prof. Tolkien's lyrics. I've cut out several verses of the Man in the Moon song, which can be found in Fellowship, and though sung by Frodo was reportedly written by Bilbo. An even shorter version is sung by Bofur and the other Dwarves in the Extended Edition of An Unexpected Journey, and I thought it would be sweet if Bilbo had taught it to them. I stuck to the extra 'there's an inn' in line one of the first verse, just because I've no reference for what the tune might sound like otherwise.
> 
> What do you all think of Oin? Isn't she spectacular? And Thorin and Fili are wonderful too, of course.


	6. Mutton Stew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo Baggins contends with rain and trolls.

Early the next morning, about the second the Company had all mounted their ponies, it began to rain. And not a nice fresh sprinkling like one would be used to in the Shire. No, an absolute downpour. Bilbo’s clothes were almost immediately soaked through, and she shivered numbly on Myrtle’s back wishing – above and beyond a handkerchief – that she had had the foresight to bring some sort of waterproof cloak.

Suddenly, something big and thick and green dropped over her head.

Rather comically, she supposed, to anyone watching, it took Bilbo a few seconds to fight her way out of the fabric. And when she did, riding to her right and with raindrops splattering on his shaved head was Dwalin.

“Is-is this your—?”

“Keep it,” the Dwarf grunted with a stern glare. “Can’t have our burglar dying of chill before we even cross the mountains.”

Intimidated, Bilbo sunk deeper into the offered cloak.

“Thank you,” she managed to squeak out at last.

Dwalin did not respond, and fell back behind her in the group. After another hour of rain, Bilbo could hear Dori’s insistent voice calling up from the back.

“Here, Mr. Gandalf, can’t you _do_ something about this _deluge_?”

When Bilbo glanced back she saw the Dwarf squinting, but covered with a cloak. His younger brother, however, was half-soaked, attempting to offer Dwalin his own cloak, now that the inked Dwarf had none. Bilbo’s ears pinked in embarrassment, and she turned back forwards where there was only the gray of Gandalf’s robes to look at.

“It is raining, Master Dwarf,” replied the wizard, rather grumpily, “and it will continue to rain until the rain is done! If you wish to change the weather of the world, you should find yourself another wizard.”

Another wizard. The thought tickled Bilbo’s fancy. She’d never seen or heard of another wizard, besides Gandalf. And anything was a better distraction than the rain. She urged Myrtle up to the side of Gandalf’s horse.

“There are other wizards?” she asked. “Do you know them?”

Gandalf smiled at her the way she remembered Old Took smiling at fauntlings during his birthday parties.

“Yes, indeed,” he answered with a nod. “There are five of us. An order, if you will. The highest of our order is Saruman the White. Then there are the two Blue wizards…”

Gandalf trailed off, looking troubled for a moment. While she waited for him to name them, Bilbo tugged Dwalin’s cloak a little tighter around herself. In the end, though, Gandalf just shook his head.

“Do you know I’ve quite forgotten their names,” he admitted, and a burst of laughter tumbled from the Hobbit’s lips.

Gandalf didn’t look very pleased at hearing it, but he didn’t scold her either. Everything seemed quiet except for the sound of the rain, so Bilbo glanced back again to make sure they hadn’t gone and lost their Dwarves – and wouldn’t that just be typical.

But no, they were all following along behind, looking right miserable. Nori had ridden his pony up to block in Dwalin between himself and Ori, and the two brothers had tied their cloaks together to at least marginally shelter all three of them. Dwalin’s expression was still rather grumpy, however. And he kept turning to Nori to mutter what could only be rude words, by his dark expression. Bilbo shook her head. Dwarves.

Glóin was riding almost constantly one-handed, attempting to fuss with Óin’s cloak to keep it in place over his ear trumpet. Which led Óin to make his pony veer away, almost off the path altogether. Dori’s countenance was resigned but just as stormy as the weather.

Thorin’s expression was one of calm intensity, but every so often he would pat his pony’s – Minty, Bilbo remembered naming her – neck. When those blue eyes flicked up at her from under his cloak, Biblo started and twisted to face forward as quickly as she could.

This time it was Gandalf letting out a chuckle. Bilbo blushed.

“W-who’s the fifth wizard?” she demanded suddenly, recalling Gandalf had only mentioned three others besides himself.

“Ah, that would be Radagast the Brown.”

“So is he a great wizard,” Bilbo asked, feeling a slight teasing, tween-ish smirk come over her face, “or is he more like you?”

The glare sent her way was torn right down the middle between irritation and amusement. In the end, though, Gandalf proved himself the more mature of the two of them and ignored the jab about his ability altogether.

“I think Radagast is a very great wizard, in his own way. He’s a gentle soul who prefers the company of animals to others.”

Bilbo hummed in thought. That didn’t sound so bad, really, she mused as she absently patted Myrtle’s neck. Certainly woodland creatures were much less trouble than a pack of thirteen Dwarves, anyway. That didn’t stop Bilbo from glancing back every so often to check on them, though.

 

The rain, thankfully, cleared up later on in the day and Bilbo offered Dwalin his cloak back. Her additional thank you was ignored, but that appeared to be the order of things with Dwarves. Never listening unless they were forced to. Honestly, what a Hobbit had to put up with!

When at last Thorin called for the Company to stop, they were at the edge of a small forest. They would, it seemed, be camping in an old farmhouse – little more than three walls, as its roof was all but crumbled and the rest did not seem very structurally sound, in Bilbo’s humble opinion.

As she clambered down off of Myrtle, she found herself next to Balin, still sitting up in his saddle and surveying the area. He appeared the most knowledgeable, and one of the more genteel, despite his playing along with the other Dwarves’ antics more often than not. Everyone else looked occupied by dismounting and unpacking, so it wasn’t as if anyone would overhear… And, well… There was something that had been bothering her since the previous night.

“Balin, may I ask you something?”

The white-haired Dwarf blinked, glancing down at Bilbo with a deeply unsettling unreadable look, and then he nodded.

“Certainly, Miss Bilbo, what is it?” Balin inquired, dismounting his pony.

“Well… It’s about Fíli and Kíli. They are a bit of trouble,” Bilbo admitted with a sigh. “But why did Thorin scold them so last night? It’s not the way a king scolds a subject. It was more like…”

A parent and child, she meant to say, but then suddenly Thorin was standing before them and the Hobbit didn’t quite have the courage to finish her sentence. The youngsters made their way over too, having heard themselves mentioned, and Bilbo’s ears pinked. Clearly she had not been as quiet or as subtle as she’d hoped. But none of the three faces before her seemed particularly angry for her nosiness, at least, even Thorin.

“They are my sister-children, Mistress Burglar,” Thorin explained calmly, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “My heirs, and heirs to the line of Durin.”

Kíli and Fíli both positively bloomed under this attention, faces glowing with joy. Heirs… And with Thorin to be King Under the Mountain once – or rather if – it was reclaimed, that meant…

“I suppose,” Bilbo said slowly, “that would make them princes…?”

A startled laugh split the air. Kíli’s dark eyes sparkled, and next to him Bilbo caught a fleeting glance of dimples on Fíli’s cheeks. The Hobbit blinked, not quite sure just what the joke was. Surely a king’s heirs would be princes? There was no nobility in the Shire, but she was certain that was how it worked the rest of the world over.

“Oh, only Fíli’s a prince!” Kíli explained good-naturedly, patting Bilbo’s shoulder. “I’m a princess.”

The Hobbit’s face flushed bright red in mortification, though neither the princess herself nor any of the other Dwarves seem perturbed by her mistake.

“I am the eldest of the two of us; the first in line after Thorin,” added Fíli, as if that had some sort of bearing on the conversation.

Bilbo just nodded like she understood, dazed. Certainly it would be gracious to apologize for mistaking Kíli for a male Dwarf, but at the moment Bilbo was too embarrassed and the rest of the company seemed to be taking her error in stride. Well, given that most female creatures weren’t capable of even the brushing of scruff Kíli managed across her face, she supposed Dwarves might be used to that sort of mistake. An apology wouldn’t be remiss, though, at a later point. Without the others around.

The prince and princess drifted off, and Bilbo busied herself with her pack in order to avoid further embarrassing herself. Thorin, who had gone back to assigning duties to the Company for the evening, sent Fíli and Kíli off to watch the ponies, then instructed Óin and Glóin to begin building a fire so Bombur could cook dinner. Bilbo wasn’t quite sure what to do, herself, and ended up accidentally eavesdropping on Gandalf and Thorin, who had begun to argue.

“I think,” the wizard was saying, “it would be wiser to move on. We could make for the Hidden Valley.”

Thorin put a hand to the hilt of his angular blade, scowling, and shook his head.

“I have told you already, I will not go near that place.”

However, just as Gandalf began to make his rebuttal, there was a quick touch on Bilbo’s elbow. She jumped, startled, and would likely have let out an embarrassing shriek if a large hand covered in a leather gauntlet had not pressed firmly to her lips.

“Shh,” hissed her captor, and Bilbo realized by the voice that it was Nori. “Come on, burglar, there’s a time an’ a place for that.”

Such said, the Dwarf all but frogmarched Bilbo over to the cluster of Dwarves milling around, unpacking, and waiting for Óin and Glóin to build a proper fire. It was only once Bilbo was safely encircled by enough Dwarves to keep her from wandering back into the king and wizard’s conversation that Nori released her. Then with a wink and a pat on her comparatively small shoulder, Nori slunk back over to the crumbling farmhouse wall.

And that, Bilbo thought to herself sourly, was at least a _bit_ hypocritical of him.

She didn’t have time to dwell on it long, however, because Glóin suddenly had a hand on her shoulder and was asking her to gather some of the drier grass to help light the fire. It was something to do, anyway, Bilbo supposed. And she did want to be helpful. If only so Thorin wouldn’t look at her like he wished they’d left her in Bag End.

“There’s a good lass,” the redheaded Dwarf said as she hauled him two large handfuls of grasses.

And though she was a Hobbit well into her middle age, and had no need for shows of praise from others thank you very much, Bilbo couldn’t deny that his words made her feel a little warm inside. She was about to ask what else she could do to help when Gandalf brushed past in a great huff, taking long and angry strides towards his horse.

Apparently things had not gone well with Thorin. As if that were a surprise.

It unnerved her to see the wizard looking like he was about to ride off and leave them all, though.

“G-Gandalf?” Bilbo chanced, raising her voice to be heard. “Is everything alright? Where are you going?”

The wizard gave a great harrumphing snort.

“To seek the only one around here who’s got any sense!” Gandalf snapped, very nearly cowing the Hobbit to silence.

She couldn’t quite stop one final inquiry though.

“Who now?”

“ _Myself_ , Miss Baggins!” he responded, mounting his horse. “I have had _quite_ enough of Dwarves for one day!”

That said he rode off, leaving a dozen Dwarves and a very concerned Hobbit gaping after him. There was a long silence from the Company, until Thorin snapped at them all to get back to their assigned jobs. Bilbo’s shoulders dropped.

“He can’t just _leave_ us here,” she muttered, still watching the horizon line Gandalf had crossed over in record time and not sure whether the comment was to herself or Bombur, who stood beside her with a ladle clutched in both hands.

 

An hour later, night had officially fallen, and Gandalf showed no signs of coming back. Bilbo was not above admitting that that put her incredibly on edge. Her fidgeting and fretting did not go unnoticed by the rest of the Company.

“Well, what has he done for us so far?” Dori sniffed, taking a bite of the stew Bombur had prepared. “Can’t even stop a rainstorm. We’ll be fine without him until Mr. Gandalf sorts himself and returns.”

“He’s rather an odd duck, Gandalf,” added Glóin simply. “But he can take care of himself, I’m sure.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about, _thank you_ ,” Bilbo muttered under her breath.

Bofur patted her on the back before dishing up two bowls of stew.

“Oh, there’s nothing for it,” he said merrily. “He’s a wizard, after all, and they come and go as they choose. Why not keep yourself busy and take these to the youngsters? They’ve not had a bite yet, since they’re watching the ponies.”

Bilbo nodded and smiled, accepting the bowls before trotting off to the little glade Fíli and Kíli were in, firmly reminding herself that she could no longer refer to them in her head as ‘the boys’. Princess Kíli. Princess Kíli. There, she could keep that straight once and for all, right?

Her smile, which had been genuine at first, dimmed a little as the conversations from the fireside grew more merry without her there. Someone had complimented Bombur on the food, and Nori had used it as a chance to insult his elder brother’s cooking.

She realized at his mocking, boisterous laugh that it was a sound she’d never heard before. Still, she was the outsider. And an untested member of their company. There was a reason she was a little outside the group.

“No use moping about!” Bilbo scolded herself. “You’re at least making yourself a bit useful, aren’t you?”

And she nodded, stepping into the trees to see Fíli and Kíli standing stock still as they stared at the ponies. Even as she reached their shoulders they didn’t budge, so the Hobbit sidled between the siblings and peered past their shoulders.

Tree. Tree. Pony.

Nothing _seemed_ amiss…

“Is… Something wrong, you two?” she asked tentatively.

“We’re supposed to be watching the ponies,” Kíli began uncomfortably, as though the entire Company had not heard the duty Thorin had assigned them.

“Only,” Fíli continued for her, “we’ve encountered a… Slight problem.”

“We _had_ sixteen,” said Kíli, making Bilbo whip her head back in the other direction.

“Now there’s… Fourteen,” finished Fíli.

The three of them stood there for a long, awkward moment, staring at the remaining ponies. Bilbo wondered how one could go about losing two whole ponies, but decided it was probably best to leave it alone. No, the important thing was getting them back.

She studied the ponies, counting them up in her head.

“So… Daisy and Bungo are the ones missing?” she asked.

The prince and princess nodded. It was only then that Bilbo spotted the uprooted tree. She approached it slowly, once again conscious that she was carrying two bowls of soup, and that if she spilled them Fíli and Kíli would not get any dinner. Which was quite possibly the worst way to go about starting a journey.

“That’s… Ah… Shouldn’t we be telling Thorin about this?” Bilbo suggested hopefully.

Fíli blanched. He shared a look with Kíli, who also seemed a bit nervous, shuffling her feet.

“Uh, no, no… No need to worry him,” the blond said, rather unconvincingly. “We thought since you’re our official burglar and all… _You_ might like to look into it.”

Bilbo could think of very few things she would actually like to do _less_ than investigate a tree-uprooting, pony-stealing monster.

“Whatever did this has to be rather, ah, large,” she told the prince and princess pointedly. “Probably dangerous too…”

Fíli looked ready to retort, but then his head snapped to the side.

“A light! Over there!”

He gestured where he was looking, and Bilbo saw that there indeed did appear to be a reddish glow. Firelight, most likely. The two young Dwarves darted off to check it out. Bilbo sucked in a breath and squeezed her eyes shut. At last she followed, still carrying Kíli and Fíli’s bowls of stew.

They were liable to be the death of her, but they still needed to eat.

Once Bilbo caught up to the two Dwarves, she ducked behind a tree like they had and gawked at the huge creatures gathered around a black stewpot.

“W-what are _those_?” Bilbo asked hoarsely.

“Trolls,” Kíli muttered, pulling a disgusted face.

There was a loud stomping noise, and the ground rattled beneath their feet. Eyes wide, Fíli snatched Bilbo and his sister and yanked them down behind a felled tree. Catching sight of the two ponies in the troll’s arms, Bilbo gasped.

“Oh no!” she hissed. “Not Myrtle and Minty!”

Her pony and Thorin’s. Losing Daisy and Bungo would have been bad enough – one of the pack ponies, and Glóin’s pony. But if they had fourteen ponies, that would still be enough to carry everyone.

“They’re going to eat the ponies,” Fíli muttered, scowl sharp and eyes narrowed.

Bilbo shuddered.

“We have to do something!”

“Yes; _you_ should. Mountain trolls are _slow_ and _stupid_ ,” Kíli insisted, placing her hands gently on Bilbo’s shoulders to steer her towards the troll camp. “And you’re so small, they’ll _never_ see you!”

The princess sounded completely convinced, and that made Bilbo’s heart sing, but she was also completely terrified and not at all sure she could face three mountain trolls for the sweet look in Kíli’s eyes.

“Oh, no,” the Hobbit protested. “No, no, no!”

“It’s perfectly safe!” Kíli told her cheerfully, easing the bowls of stew from Bilbo’s hands and handing one to her brother. “We’ll be right behind you.”

“If you run into trouble, hoot twice like a barn owl and once like a brown owl,” the prince instructed matter-of-factly.

Bilbo stumbled forward at Fíli’s one-handed push, clutching a fist around the chain at her neck automatically.

“Twice like a—once like—W-wait,” she hissed, turning back to them. “You can’t send me out there without even a knife…!”

Fíli looked at Kíli. Kíli looked at Fíli. The both of them looked at Bilbo, rather stunned, as though the fact that their burglar might not already _have_ a knife on her had not even occurred to them. Bilbo was becoming rather certain it hadn’t. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed to Yavanna for patience with her husband’s creations. She also pondered fleetingly if Aulë was as scatterbrained as his children were; and then she decided that was really rather not something she wanted to think on if she were attempting to stay in the Valar’s good graces.

“Right then, sorry ‘bout that,” the golden-haired prince apologized, shoving a dagger into Bilbo’s comparatively small hands. “Forgot you weren’t like Nori.”

“Anyway, good luck, we’ll be right here just in case!” Kíli insisted quietly, shooing Bilbo towards the trolls’ camp.

Bilbo took a deep, shaky breath, cursed Dwarves for not the first and not the last time, and crept towards the firelight. They wanted her to be a proper burglar and rescue the ponies? Fine. She would. Only so she’d not have them all complaining about her.

And because she’d grown very fond of those ponies, and most certainly did _not_ want to see them in the bellies of stupid, smelly trolls.

Slowly and silently, she made her way over to the roped pen the ponies had been deposited in. All the while, she kept glancing over to the trolls around the fire, making sure none of them turned her way. She held up Fíli’s dagger, and set to work sawing at the rope.

But it didn’t seem to do much. Sure, she was making a dent in the rope, but it would take all night to cut through it with such a small blade. What she needed was a sword. Then, like a beacon, something glinted at the waist of one of the trolls. A wicked-looking curved sword.

That’d do.

 

The second Bilbo had crept away from the ponies and towards one of the seated trolls, Kíli and Fíli had shot each other worried looks. With two silent taps to her own chest with her index and middle fingers, and the thumb of her opposite hand jammed back over her shoulder, Fíli indicated she was heading back for the others. She snatched up their empty stew bowls as she went – it’d been lukewarm, and thus easier to chug the second Bilbo had crept off.

Maybe Bilbo would manage whatever risky maneuver she was about to attempt, but though they were young the prince and princess knew not to tempt fate. And as much as they didn’t want Thorin on their hides about losing the ponies, they _really_ didn’t want her on their hides about losing the burglar. Not to mention, they _liked_ the burglar. Kíli, licking her lips and trying not to shift her weight from foot to foot in nervousness, continued to watch Bilbo.

Having given up on Fíli’s dagger, it looked as if the Hobbit was attempting to pickpocket one of the trolls. Bilbo _was_ both very small and very quick, but Kíli still felt her heart lurch a little. She was beginning to regret sending Bilbo in alone…

 

Bilbo was just about to think herself right clever when suddenly a giant grubby hand was clutching her like she was a mouse. That was nothing, though, compared to the feeling of being _sneezed on_. The vibrations rattled her entire body, including her soft belly, and she could feel the wet, sticky gloop – she tried her very hardest not to think _snot_ – seeping through her waistcoat.

She was almost too startled to shriek, and even more surprised when the only yelp that hit the air was from the troll that had just _sneezed on her_. As if he had any right to be startled or upset! Yavanna’s skirts, _Bilbo_ was the one being manhandled and used like a handkerchief!

“Blimey!” he exclaimed, “Bert! Look what’s come outta me ‘ooter! It’s got arms an’ legs an’ everything!”

Bilbo squirmed on top of his huge palm, pulling a disgusted face.

“I most certainly have not come out of your nose!” she insisted immediately.

“It talks!” the same troll squealed fearfully.

As he spoke, he slid her off his hand in an almost dainty gesture – like a fauntling trying to shoo away a spider. Still, it was no short fall, and Bilbo found herself winded, even though she’d tried to roll into it.

“What are you, then? An oversized squirrel?” demanded a different troll.

“A squ—No! I’m a burgl—Hobbit!”

She’d been listening to the Dwarves too long, clearly, if she was introducing herself as a ‘burglar’. While they argued about the merits of cooking her versus her small size, Bilbo attempted to dart away. She was able to dodge them for a minute or so, but eventually she ended up dangled by her feet in one of the trolls’ hands.

“There any more of you burglar-hobbits about?” he asked, shaking her.

Bilbo blinked hard as her head rattled, and groaned.

“N-no!” she insisted, which of course wasn’t exactly a lie.

“She’s _lying_ ,” insisted the troll that’d sneezed on her.

“No I’m not!” the Hobbit squeaked out.

Her heart was pounding hard in her chest and she wished fervently for her warm hearth and comfy Hobbit hole. Anything but being almost crushed in the grip of a _mountain troll_ of all things!

“Hold ‘er toes over the fire,” the same troll sneered. “Make ‘er squeal!”

 

Oh, no. No, no, no. They were _not_ going to hold Bilbo’s toes over the fire, not if she had anything to say about it! Kíli took a deep breath then charged, slashing the nearest troll in the back of his fat gray leg. He howled in pain, tottering on his uninjured leg before falling over.

“Drop her!” the princess ordered, blood still racing high after her successful attack.

“You wot?” asked one of the trolls.

“I said,” Kíli grinned fiercely, twirling her blade, “ _drop her_.”

Her heart was pounding hard in her chest, and for once she thought she might understand how it felt to be Thorin.

And then suddenly she was being bowled over by three and a half feet of Hobbit, and considered that perhaps she had chosen poorly in terms of demands. Next time, the princess decided dizzily, she would make sure to order any captors to set their prisoner down _gently_. She groaned, but it was soon drowned out by fierce battle cries.

Thank Mahal. Fíli had managed to get Aunt Thorin and the others.

Kíli pushed their Hobbit off her gently and snatched up her sword again, joining the fray.

 

Bilbo had no idea what she ought to do. The Dwarves were rushing about the trolls’ feet, performing the sorts of acrobatics she had never dreamed anyone but Elves nimble enough for. They tossed each other through the air, slid between the trolls’ legs… Ori knocked Nori from a troll’s fist with a well-placed rock from his slingshot. Thorin was everywhere, slashing the trolls with his blade and protecting every one of their Company he could reach.

The Hobbit felt utterly useless, watching them all fight so cohesively.

And then her eyes caught on the still-unopened gate holding their ponies. She could do that.

It took much of her strength to heft the curved blade she had originally been attempting to steal, but it had been discarded on the ground and easier to reach, at least. Singlemindedly, Bilbo sawed at the rope of the pen.

With a final snap, it broke and she pulled open the gate. Daisy, Bungo, Myrtle, and Minty all stampeded out, nearly flattening her. Once they were past, out of the reach of nasty trolls, Bilbo grinned triumphantly and dropped the troll’s sword, wiping her sweaty brow with the back of her hand.

“Hah!” she exclaimed.

And then out of nowhere fat fingers were squishing her ribs.

 

**The Company has reformed their ranks, grouped together, when suddenly the trolls are holding up Bilbo, stretched limb from limb between their meaty gray hands. Thorin’s heart lurches.**

**“Bilbo!” Kíli cries out, making to step forward.**

**“No!”**

**Thorin’s arm shoots out and stops her. Fighting, rushing forward, will not save their burglar. And even though mountain trolls are especially stupid, it does not make their capacity for cruelty and violence any less than an Orc or Warg’s. Even idiots can figure out how to use a hostage.**

**“Lay down your arms, or we rip hers off,” orders one of the trolls, pulling a sneer to Thorin’s face.**

**Helpless. Weak. Her eyes lock on Bilbo’s and narrow darkly. But she buries her blade in the dirt, even if the action leaves an acidic burn in her chest. The others follow her lead, the younger ones like Kíli and Ori slamming their weapons down with a frustrated rage Thorin understands all too well.**

**Once they’re divested of weapons, the trolls truss them up in burlap sacks. All but Dwalin, the ‘Ri sisters, and Bofur, who they tie to a spit over their fire. Thorin’s hand itches for a blade, and she curses Gandalf’s dratted burglar three times over.**

**More than that, she curses herself, for failing her Company.**

 

Bilbo felt her stomach turn as the trolls argued about how to cook them all. There she was, trying to be useful, and all she’d managed to do was get everyone _eaten_.

“A fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Bilbo Baggins,” she muttered under her breath. “If only Gandalf were here…”

The wizard would have already thought of some clever way to save them, surely. Even if he seemed a bit unimpressive at times, Bilbo knew he had saved her mother more than once on their adventure together.

“They should be sautéed and grilled, with a sprinkle of sage,” she heard the troll with the apron insist distantly.

The Hobbit wracked her brains for a plan, attempting to tune out the indignant shouts of the Dwarves around her, who were still spitting insults and threats even while tied up.

“—ain’t got all night!” she heard through her thoughts. “Dawn ain’t far away, so let’s get a move on. I don’t fancy being turned to stone!”

Bilbo’s pointed ears perked at that, and she twitched her nose as a plan began to come to her.

“Wait!” she cried out, wiggling until she could make her way to her feet. “You are making a _huge_ mistake!”

“You can’t reason with them,” Dori cried fatalistically from the spit. “They’re halfwits!”

That was exactly what Bilbo was counting on, however.

“What does that make us?” Bofur called back at the silver-haired Dwarf, and Bilbo nearly lost her composure and fell into a fit of nervous, hysterical giggles.

The only thing that kept her expression flat and earnest was the thought that if she failed, they would all die, and no dark joke by Bofur could bring them back from that.

“I-I meant with… The seasoning,” Bilbo continued, trying to smile at the lumpy face of the chef troll – Bert?

He squinted, leaning down to study her with his one good eye.

“Oh? And what _about_ the seasoning?” he demanded defensively.

Bilbo dithered, twisting back and forth, and then the musk of the pile of Dwarves behind her hit her nose. Well. There was _that_.

“Have you smelt them?” she asked, leaning in to that particular troll and keeping all her attention on him, like she was confiding in him. “You’re going to need something much stronger if you ever want to plate this lot up without your stomach turning.”

From both behind and before her, there was a chorus of angry shouts.

“Traitor!” Glóin called, writhing in his sack as he attempted to reach her.

Bilbo just smiled innocently and tried to pretend the Dwarves weren’t there.

“Oh, what do _you_ know about cooking Dwarf?” one of the other trolls snipped snidely.

She was about a third of the way prepared to lie through her teeth, but the troll in the apron didn’t need convincing. He held up a hand to the other troll and ordered him to shut up and let her speak. Bilbo almost grinned from ear to ear; her tactic had worked. He was interested in what she had to say.

But what did she have to say?

“Er, the secret to, uh… To cooking Dwarf is… Um…”

“Yes?” he pressed.

“The uh… The secret is…” Bilbo stammered, squirming slightly in the burlap sack and wishing to _sweet Yavanna_ that it wasn’t so itchy and she could _think_.

“Go on,” the troll grunted, scowling at her impatiently. “Tell us the secret.”

“I _know_ , I _know_ , I’m _telling you_ ,” the Hobbit hissed, frustrated. “The secret to cooking dwarf is to, ah…”

She tilted her head to the side, and contemplated – how did one usually prepare meat? What would the trolls believe? They were horrendously stupid – one thought she’d come from his nose! – but they were also suspicious. Bilbo dithered for another half-second, but when she saw the chef troll’s eyes narrow, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“The secret is to skin them first!”

And oh, how the Dwarves did _not_ like _that_. They shouted and snapped.

“I won’t forget this!” Dwalin shouted above the others, struggling to move his arms in a threatening manner as he was rotated on the spit. “I won’t forget it!”

Bilbo nearly groaned in frustration, but held it in.

“What a load of rubbish!” the skeptical troll snapped. “I’ve had plenty with their skins on! Scarf ‘em, I say, boots and all!”

“’e’s right!” added the troll that had sneezed on her. “Nothing wrong with a bit of _raw_ Dwarf – nice and crunchy!”

Bilbo was, well. Not actually all that surprised considering the foul-smelling whatever they had been cooking in that pot. Some subtle movement in the bushes caught her eyes then, a flash of gray and a pointy hat. She nearly let out a great whoosh of air in relief, but managed to hold the reaction back.

Then the troll with the head cold picked up Bombur by his feet and dangled the poor Dwarf above his mouth and Bilbo panicked.

“Not that one!” she shouted before she quite knew what she was saying.

Really not any of them, but Bombur was shy and a very good cook and had a pleasantly round, comforting figure – to a Hobbit tramping across Arda with a troop of blocky, squarish Dwarves – and he was Bofur’s brother besides. And for the moment, he was in the most danger.

“H-he—he’s infected!” the Hobbit blurted out before she had a chance to second-guess herself.

“You wot?”

“He’s… He’s got worms, in his… Tubes,” she fumbled, thinking _dear sweet Eru_ no matter how stupid they are, they are _never_ going to buy that.

And yet, the troll holding Bombur squeaked in disgust and immediately dropped the Dwarf back onto his fellows. Quickly, before he could select another Dwarf from the lot, she made her move.

“In-in fact all of them are, it’s highly contagious! Infested with parasites, the lot. I wouldn’t risk it if I were you, I really wouldn’t – terrible business!” the Hobbit insisted, looking earnestly up at the trio of _blessedly stupid_ trolls. “Give you the runs, won’t be able to keep anything down – why, you’ll fairly waste away!”

And then she realized with a sinking heart that she had forgotten to consider a few other _blessedly stupid_ variables.

“Parasites? Did she say parasites?” Óin demanded loudly and indignantly, having no ear trumpet to help him hear what was happening.

“We don’t have parasites, _you_ have parasites!” Kíli snapped, wiggling about in her sack indignantly.

Thankfully, no one else managed an outburst before Thorin kicked his niece’s sack. She and the others glanced up at him, and finally, mercifully, seemed to understand. However, their attempts to cover their blunder weren’t much more intelligent. Bilbo just hoped the trolls were slow enough to buy it.

If they all lived, Bilbo was going to hold the Dwarves’ panicked assurances of how many parasites, and how _large_ of parasites they had in her memory forever.

“What would you have us do then,” the nearest troll demanded angrily, “let ‘em all go?”

Bilbo shrugged, pulling her best ‘what can you do’ face.

“Well…”

“You think I don’t know what you’re up to?” he demanded, jabbing a huge finger at her. “This little _ferret_ is taking us for fools!”

Bilbo’s mouth dropped open.

“Ferret?!” she repeated in disbelief.

Why, she’d never been so insulted in all her life! Never mind the mortal danger, her good name was at stake here! But by the time she’d properly worked herself up, Gandalf stepped atop a nearby rock to save the day.

“The dawn will take you all!” he shouted – which in hindsight Bilbo would find incredibly overdramatic.

Splitting the boulder down the middle, he revealed a stream of daylight aimed right at the trolls, who screamed as they slowly turned to stone.

Well. That was certainly something one didn’t see every day.

The Dwarves broke out in cheers. Bilbo just dropped to her sack-covered knees in sheer relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I feel like some of this reads a bit rushed, but... I'm excited to get to Rivendell so I can add in some of Bilbo's family history.


	7. Chekov's Wizard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A troll hoard is explored, a previously-mentioned wizard makes an appearance, and Gandalf tells everyone to run for the first of many times.

It had taken all of a half-hour to get everyone untied and off the trolls’ spit. Then, of course, they’d all had to saddle up with their gear and outer layers again. Bilbo was baffled how the Dwarves could be wearing what had to be five or six layers of clothing in the middle of summer, but she was too tired to bother trying to decide if asking about it might offend them or not.

She personally had wanted to just take a rest, get in at least a few hours of sleep. But both the newly-returned Gandalf and their fearless Dwarf king were anxious to scour the trolls’ cave. Why, Bilbo couldn’t imagine. There was no way the trolls were great craftsmen, and she was none too eager to go stomping around in a hole that smelled anything like their captors had.

She had offered a polite no thank you as several others wandered into the cave they had eventually found. It was something foul, and she was already quite busy enough attempting to wipe the troll snot from her waistcoat thank you very much. She was scrubbing at it with her makeshift handkerchief – that is, the piece of cloth Bofur had ripped from his clothes for her, she thought it might have once been an interior pocket – and didn’t notice Kíli come up to her, scuffing her squared boots against the dirt.

“Bilbo?”

The Hobbit started, jumping.

“Kíli? Y-yes, what is it?”

The dark-haired princess scratched at the back of her neck and stared at her feet.

“I, uh…” she stammered. “I just, sorry for almost ruining your plan.”

Since they were out of danger for the moment, Bilbo was able to manage an indulgent smile. And then, before she could quite rein in her impulse, she reached out and tugged on a lock of brown hair. That prompted Kíli to, finally, look up, a bit startled.

“You certainly weren’t the only one,” the Hobbit told her reassuringly. “And you’re young. It isn’t as though I did much, anyway, just stalled until Gandalf could save us. Nothing heroic about that.”

A slow, full smile crossed the Dwarf princess’s face, and Bilbo had the immediate sensation of standing in a warm afternoon sunbeam.

 

**Thorin enters the troll hoard with Gandalf, Dwalin, Bofur, Nori, and **Glóin**  hot on her heels. No one else seems keen to follow them in, but she’s fine with that. Dwalin is always at her side, and that is unlikely to ever change. **Glóin**  is a businessman, one likely to know the value of the scraps they find, Nori is… Well, she’s not going to be kept out anyway, no matter what anyone says. Not an insubordinate member of the company so much as a very thorough one. Bofur’s just curious, and Thorin doesn’t begrudge her that if she’s willing to face the trolls’ stench to wander around and gawk.**

**Nothing in particular catches Thorin’s eye, until she spots a barrel with two blades inside, like some strange glorified umbrella stand. She pats Deathless, strapped to her side as usual, but then she’s never passed up a chance at additional weapons either.**

**“What have we here…?” the king murmurs, pulling the two swords out. “These were not shaped by any troll.”**

**They’re dusty and cobwebbed, almost wrapped in grime, and she hands the longer one to Gandalf. It is he who managed to kill the trolls in the end, after all, and it is only honorable that he share in the reward.**

**“Nor were they made by any smith among men,” Gandalf adds, and Thorin finds she must agree with him.**

**They are certainly too detailed, too skillful for a weapon forged by beings with such short lives and no magic to speak of. While she dusts off the sheath of her blade, Gandalf merely begins to unsheathe the long, pin-straight sword she has handed him.**

**“These were forged in Gondolin by the High Elves of the First Age,” the wizard muses, and Thorin feels every muscle in her arms tense.**

**Elvish blades. She would not be caught _dead_ fighting with an Elvish blade. The very metal of the sheath seems to burn her hand, and she cannot be rid of it soon enough. But the second she reaches to toss the sword back into the dusty barrel from whence it came, Gandalf rebukes her, sharply.**

**“You could not wish for a finer blade.”**

**Thorin scoffs.**

**“We shall see about that.”**

**But she is forced to eat her words as she unsheathes the sword, for she can tell at a glance that it is finely wrought. Perhaps even more masterfully than Deathless, which came from her own hands. And it would be all but a sin against the Maker to leave such a well-forged weapon lying in this troll rot. The sword seems to agree, the patterns carved into it gleaming in what spare light there is. It almost makes her shudder, to feel kinship with this Elf-forged weapon, but her love of weapon-smithing wins out over her disgust towards Thranduil and his ilk.**

**A quick glance at the rest of the small cave reveals nothing of interest. She turns back towards the light. As soon as she can breathe air that isn’t rank with the smell of troll, she is sure her mood will lighten considerably.**

Dwalin had never found herself particularly susceptible to boredom. Given that a lot of her life had been spent waiting on Thorin to get her royal end in gear, she’d never considered that particularly surprising. Grumpiness, though, would perhaps be said by others to be one of her less-valued traits. And as Gandalf and Thorin explored the deeper parts of the cave, she was left to watch Glóin, Bofur, and Nori – the three idiots – start digging a hole to bury some of their newly acquired loot.

“We’re making a _long-term_ deposit,” Glóin explained smugly, the high-brow bastard – never mind he was her cousin.

Dwalin just snorted in response, as his words weren’t worth the energy of a real reply. The great twits. She wondered when any of them would ever come back for it. She also hadn’t missed Nori purposefully bumping into her side as she had grabbed up a shovel to bury the chest of gold. Dwalin had, of course – like any good guard around a thief – done a quick pat-down to make sure Nori hadn’t taken anything. Luckily for her, she had not. Company or not, Dwalin was not above sending anyone who thought to pickpocket her crashing straight into next Durin’s Day.

The guard captain thanked her Maker when Thorin finally began striding back.

“Let’s get out of this place,” the king ordered gruffly, and Dwalin couldn’t have agreed more. “Let’s go. Bofur! Glóin! Nori!”

The last shouts were a command to the three buffoons still loitering about their buried treasure like new mothers. As if anyone would crawl so far into the stench to get at their measly holdings. Dwalin took several long steps out into the open air and finally took a full breath through the nose.

It was a blessing to breathe air not tainted by thrice-damned trolls.

“What was in there?”

Dwalin started, whipping around to face Ori. Then she cleared her throat, loudly and rudely, just to regain some sense of internal equilibrium. The scribe had her little journal out, cradled between her half-covered hands. She looked… Well, she looked small. Dwalin swallowed hard and cleared her throat again.

“Some gold. Couple’a swords,” she answered with a halfhearted shrug. “And troll stink.”

That coaxed a bell-tone of laughter from Ori’s lips, and Dwalin allowed her own to itch up into a contented smirk. In fact, she was feeling pretty damn pleased with herself for putting the poor Dwarf at ease after their stint of being roasted over the fire – which’d be traumatic for, well, most people. And it wasn’t often that a face like Dwalin’s put people at ease, anyway – scar above the eye, missing most of an ear, valiant battle wounds but hardly _pretty_. Not that she cared. Better to be feared than loved and all that.

And then the back of her neck prickled.

And really, she ought to have known what _that_ meant, even before there was a knifepoint pressed gently into the small of her back. It was just a slight pressure that could’ve been anything, but with Nori having been in the group behind her, there wasn’t a different conclusion to make. Dwalin’s eye twitched.

“I see you’re back from diggin’ holes,” the guard growled out.

The press of the knife disappeared, and Nori slapped Dwalin on the arm. It was a gesture of camaraderie, but Dwalin wasn’t in the mood. She shrugged away from the thief and stomped back over to Thorin, where she belonged.

 

Bilbo was startled when Gandalf approached her, and held out his arms with something to offer her.

“This should be about your size,” the wizard commented, seeming rather pleased with himself.

“Gandalf, I-I can’t take this! I’ve no idea what to do with a sword! I was bad enough with Fili’s dagger,” insisted the Hobbit, shying away from the small blade.

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed, and he dropped the sheathed short sword into Bilbo’s arms without her permission.

“It is of Elvish make, so if nothing else it will alert you when enemies are nearby; it glows blue in the presence of Orcs and goblins,” he said sternly.

As usual, Bilbo was getting nowhere in attempting to argue with the stubborn wizard, so she unsheathed her new sword gently to look at it. The shape of the blade was soft, almost curving, but it looked wickedly sharp. A swirling, vine-like pattern decorated the flat of it, and indeed it did look just the size for a Hobbit to wield. Bilbo’s grip tightened. Something felt… Right, about holding it.

“I don’t know what use I’ll be with this,” she muttered, if only to be contrary. “I’ve never used a sword, not in a fight.”

She glanced up just in time to catch the softness in Gandalf’s eyes.

“And I hope, my dear Bilbo, that you never have to. But this is a dangerous journey. I want you to remember, however: now that you have that, a great responsibility lies on your shoulders. True courage is about knowing not when to take a life, but to spare it.”

Bilbo nodded, rolling the wizard’s words over in her mind. At last, she strapped her new sword to her waist. Then a shout went up.

“Something’s coming!”

At Thorin’s cry, the company began to form up and Bilbo hurried to join them, drawing her little sword. It wasn’t glowing blue, she noticed. Not goblins or Orcs, then. That was something of a relief. Bilbo found herself sandwiched between Óin and Fíli when a figure on a sled – pulled by, good gracious, were those rabbits? – burst through the underbrush.

“Thieves! Fire! Murder!” he screamed as he pulled the sled to a stop.

And odd shudder rushed up Bilbo’s spine, and pain burst just behind her right eye. Ringing in her ears were those same words, but shouted by a voice that rattled her bones with its enormity, a voice like fire and gold. She came to half a second later, with Óin pressing the heel of his palm to her forehead and Fíli supporting her by the arm. The little sword Gandalf had given her had clattered into the dirt.

“—gast! Radagast the Brown!” Gandalf was in the middle of exclaiming, lowering his staff and taking two long strides forward to the shaken bundle perched on the sled. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Bilbo blinked hard. So, that was Radagast? The Hobbit pushed her Dwarf caretakers away gently.

“’m fine,” she insisted. “Just a headache.”

Fíli released her reluctantly, and Óin backed away with a very clear, stern healer’s glare that promised bad things to follow if Bilbo was hiding any sort of injury. For her part, the Hobbit ignored them both and shuffled a little closer to the two wizards, curious.

Radagast was smaller than Gandalf, but also more compact in a way not purely physical. His nose was red and his eyes were wild with fear. He looked, she thought, a bit like the rabbits pulling his sled. Skittish, but in tune with nature, a well-meaning being. Perhaps not in the same vein as Gandalf, not quite, but he did make her feel rather safe.

Even as he babbled and insisted to Gandalf that something was horribly wrong.

The two of them were quick to go off and chat alone, and the Dwarves immediately started up whispering about it. Bilbo almost cracked a smile – perhaps Dwarves and Hobbits were not so different after all. The Company was nearly as gossipy as her neighbors!

 

“I don’t like the looks of him,” Glóin growled, hand still tight on his axe.

“You don’t like the looks of anyone, you codgy bastard,” Óin retorted, her expression flat.

The redheaded businessman just glared back at his elder sister and let out a harrumph that said everything he needed to.

“He feels like forests and sparrows,” came a soft voice. “I don’t think he’s dangerous.”

Glóin glanced over at their burglar, busy scooping up a wee little blade she had apparently dropped. He noticed with a grimace that she was holding it all wrong, but was admittedly relieved their little Hobbit had at least something to defend herself with. Hobbits were not made of stone the way Dwarrows were, and the lass needed at least something to swing at any enemies they encountered. She was supposedly fully grown to her own people – even well-on to middle age – but still shorter than Gimli had been when Glóin had left Ered Luin with Óin.

“Sparrows,” the Dwarf grunted, attempting to get a hold over his emotions. “And just what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Bilbo puffed up and scowled just the slightest, and the stern look in her eyes almost made Glóin think of Thorin. Well. Maybe the burglar had been picking up a skill or two. Or she’d found a vein of mithril in her spine during the troll incident, as awful as the whole business had been.

“It means he reminds me of Yavanna, a bit,” Bilbo retorted, sheathing her sword. “He’s very close with the living creatures of the world. And he is a friend of Gandalf’s, so we can trust him.”

That sort of logic didn’t sit well with Glóin – and looking at Thorin it didn’t seem to sit well with her either – but there was no real counterargument to be made about why the wizard might be dangerous, so he cut his losses and shut his yap.

Just in time for a howl to split the air.

 

“Was that a wolf?” Bilbo demanded, startled. “Are-are there _wolves_ out there?”

Ice choked the Hobbit’s lungs, and her fingers clutched for the hilt of her new sword. Images, half memory half nightmare, flashed across her waking eyes. Dangerously thin white wolves, prowling the snow, mouths red, claws black. A starving, frozen ache in the pit of her belly. The sound of Bungo’s coughing, worrisome enough to make Belladonna dither like a child, but not loud enough to drown out the howling.

“Wolves?” Bofur asked, and his trembling voice jolted her from herself. “No, that is not a wolf.”

His voice sounded all the more worried for it, however. A snarl came from the bushes behind them, and a gray-furred creature leapt onto Dori, but before anyone made a sound, Thorin had sliced into it with a sword. It certainly wasn’t the time for details, but Bilbo noticed that the edge of the blade was curved, more of an Elvish design than the sword Thorin had used against the trolls.

As he attempted to wrench the blade from his prey, another of the creatures – Wargs, for they could be nothing else, Bilbo was sure – approached him. Kíli snapped an arrow into its eye hurriedly, and the Warg tumbled down the hill with a cry of pain. It leapt up again, however, and was only felled with a swing from Dwalin’s hammer.

At last, Thorin managed to tug her blade from the animal’s flesh.

“Warg scouts,” the king said with a breathless snarl. “Which means an Orc pack is not far behind.”

“ _Orc pack_?” Bilbo demanded, indignation and fear zipping through her veins in equal amounts.

Gandalf, however, had apparently more pressing concerns. He and Radagast had hurried up next to Bilbo sometime during the attack, but Gandalf took several steps more across the loose ring their Company had formed, staring Thorin down.

“Who did you tell about your quest?” the wizard demanded, the hand gripping his staff going white with tension.

“No one,” Thorin answered.

“Who did you tell?!” repeated Gandalf angrily, all but spitting the words.

 

**“No one, I swear,” she repeats intensely, but though there is conviction behind the words, there is also more fear than anger.**

**Gandalf scoffs and turns his head, but Thorin can see that he, too, is panicking. She takes a step forward and lowers her voice.**

**“What in Durin’s name is going on?”**

**Gandalf just shakes his head, turning himself to face the entire Company instead of just its leader.**

**“You are being hunted,” he informs them all gravely.**

**Thorin can see the Halfling flinch at these words, and wastes a brief second bitterly wondering how much Mistress Baggins wishes she were at home in her hole. But that does nothing for them, any of them. Instead, Thorin turns to Dwalin.**

**“We have to get out of here,” the guard says fiercely.**

**Thorin knows she speaks truth, eyes flashing to each member of the Company and sizing them up. They, sixteen of them counting the wizards – which Thorin is reluctant to do, not having their binding word – cannot face a pack of Orcs as they are.**

**But then Ori and Bifur rush back to the rest of the group and bring news that their ponies have bolted. They cannot outrun the Wargs on foot, that much is certain, and even if they could there is nowhere to go.**

**And yet, the new wizard Radagast agrees to draw them off.**

**It is not the most foolhardy thing Thorin has ever done, but it certainly isn’t the most intelligent. They have no choice. Gandalf at the head, they charge across the plains in one direction as Radagast and his sled of rabbits leads the Orcs in the other.**

**It is a tiring run, zigzagging past rocks and changing directions suddenly to stay out of view of the Wargs. Radagast passes them several yards away going in the opposite direction, and the Company has to freeze behind an outcropping of boulder to avoid being seen. Ori, frazzled, does not stop immediately, and stumbles past the shelter.**

**“Ori, no! Come back!”**

**With a yank on the scribe’s collar, Thorin has her with them all once again. She shoots a look at Dwalin that her oldest companion can interpret easily – keep her close. Then Gandalf redirects them. Away from the Wargs, yes, but not in the exact opposite direction of them either. Thorin squints her eyes.**

**“Where are you leading us?” she demands of the wizard.**

**His silence all but confirms her suspicion that he is herding them towards Rivendell, and she hates it, but they cannot get caught. Not by these Orcs.**

**They stop again behind another outcropping, catching their breath, when loud snuffling reaches Thorin’s ears. Pressed with her back against the rock, she looks up to find that a single Warg and its rider have broken away from the pack and are standing right above them. She lets out a curse in her head that Dís would have scolded her for. And then she feels Kíli at her side, clutching her bow.**

**A slight tip of the chin and a flick of the eyes up at the scout is all it takes to motion Kíli to leap away from the rock and fire an arrow straight into the beast’s head. Like before, it is not a killing blow. The Warg topples, and the Company sets upon it and its rider. Dwalin manages to bash in the Orc’s head, and Bifur guts the mount with her boar spear. But not before a lot of agonized screams from both Warg and rider reach the air.**

**Thorin sucks in a breath through her teeth. Gandalf orders them all to run.**

**She does not know it in this moment, but someday she will look back and think that aside from giving flowery and ultimately riddle-filled speeches, all Gandalf does is tell people to run. Regardless, in the moment it is sound advice, and she follows it, making sure to keep all thirteen of her Company in sight.**

**They run until they are surrounded. Then there is only one choice.**

**“There’s more coming!” Kíli cries out, fitting an arrow to her bow with steady hands and darting eyes.**

**“Shoot them!” Thorin orders.**

**The more Kíli can take down with her bow, the less chance there is of anyone in their Company being injured. The Orcs hunting them do not wield ranged weapons. Fíli, spread out to the side, draws her dual blades.**

**“We’re surrounded!” the blonde announces as she backs up, and Thorin curses, once more, their ill luck as she draws her new sword.**

**After firing off three shots, Kíli sends a glance back and freezes.**

**“Where is Gandalf?” the princess demands.**

**It is only then that Thorin notices the thrice-damned wizard is gone.**

**“He has abandoned us!” snarls Dwalin, lifting her hammer as she hurries to Thorin’s side with Bofur on her heels.**

**Thorin isn’t so sure of that, but the message remains the same: they’re on their own. The company backs together, forming a loose ring. They will fight, to the last Dwarf. And, perhaps, Thorin thinks when she sees the little Elvish blade trembling in the Hobbit’s hand, to the last member of their company.**

**Ori, armed with nothing but her slingshot, takes aim at the Orc pack’s leader. Her stone bounces off his mount, completely ineffective. If they survive this, Thorin swears on Mahal’s beard she is going to make someone give Ori a proper weapon – even their burglar has one now.**

**“Stand your ground!” the king orders, Elvish sword in one hand, Dwarfish axe in the other.**

**And then the wizard’s voice is ringing out from behind them.**

**“This way, you fools!”**

**Thorin grunts in displeasure at the term, but it looks as if Gandalf has found them an escape. She glances back, then gestures hurriedly for the others to dive inside.**

**“Come on, move! Quickly, all of you!” Thorin shouts, leaping up to the boulder set just before whatever hole Gandalf has climbed down. “Go, go, go!”**

**Members of the Company dive down into whatever cave it is Gandalf has been hiding in, and she counts them off. Bofur, the Halfling, Balin, **Glóin** , the ‘Ri sisters –**

**Thorin has to pause because a Warg is racing straight for her. She cuts it down in one full-body swing of her new sword, then points the tip of the blade outward to threaten any other that would dare come near. Bombur dives in, and he’s the last save her nieces. Everyone else had been funneling back towards the hole, but Kíli is still far afield, firing arrows.**

**“Kíli! Run!” Thorin shouts, knowing that the archer will not move, will not notice she must, unless commanded.**

**Fíli, closer at hand, does not slide down to safety until her sister is right behind her. Thorin takes one glance back at the approaching Orcs and follows after them. She has only barely gotten to her feet when the blare of a hunting horn sounds over the evil noise of the Wargs. The Dwarf king’s head snaps back to what little she can see outside the underground tunnel they’ve entered.**

**The sounds of a battle rage outside. Then a single Orc corpse falls down with them.**

Bilbo scurried out of the way of the fallen Orc. Once its body came to a stop, Gandalf prodded it with the flat of his new sword, but it did not move. Well and truly dead. Thorin bent down to examine the arrow shot through its neck, and slid the weapon from the wound.

Its tip was covered in black blood.

“Elves,” the Dwarf king grumbled, voice low like a sneer.

It didn’t take much to notice Gandalf roll his eyes, and to be honest Bilbo was pretty close to that herself. Thorin’s grudges with Elves were none of her concern, but how could he hate anyone who had helped save their lives? It seemed terribly ungrateful of him.

Speaking of saving lives… Bilbo wondered if Radagast was alright. She bit her lip and, though Hobbits were not especially devout to the Valar, sent a little prayer to Yavanna to keep the wizard safe. Then, there was a shout from the far end of the tunnel.

“I cannot see where the pathway leads!” Dwalin called, his hammer still raised as if to defend them from any enemy coming that way. “Should we follow it or no?”

Bilbo expected to hear an answer, one way or another, from Thorin. But Bofur was the one who spoke up first, hurrying after Dwalin with his ridiculous hat bouncing on his head.

“Follow it, of course!”

And so they did, saying no more about it. Bilbo found herself near the back of the Company, with Gandalf.

“I think that would be wise,” the wizard agreed quietly, more to himself than anything.

It was only as he gave a mischievous little smile that she became a bit suspicious, that perhaps Gandalf _knew_ where the narrow crevice would lead them.

Bilbo found, as she turned the last corner and stared out over a breathtaking expanse of valley, filled with glittering waterfalls and swirling white architecture, that she quite knew where they were too. She gaped, and even the Dwarves were still, though perhaps more unsettled than in awe of great beauty.

“The Valley of Imladris,” said Gandalf from behind her, though Bilbo could not turn her eyes away to track his movement or study his expression. “In Westron, it is known by another name.”

Unblinking, overwhelmed, Bilbo felt that name on her lips.

“Rivendell…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we're in Rivendell! I'm extending the stay to a week or two (I'm pretty sure it was two in the book), and hopefully you'll be getting some relatively new scenes soon. Including how Bungo courted Belladonna! It's all very exciting, I promise, and Tom Bombadill may or may not be making an appearance in the nested story.


	8. Is a Group of Elves Called a Host?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company arrives in Rivendell properly (or, rather, improperly) and proceeds to make a mess of things. The Elves are passive-aggressive but may want to step up their game for the rest of the Dwarves' visit, because it's not been effective yet. 
> 
> Bilbo is horrified.

Looking out over Rivendell, Bilbo felt truly at peace.

For all of about five seconds before Thorin started to snap at Gandalf.

“ _This_ was your plan all along,” the Dwarf king accused. “To seek refuge with our _enemy_.”

Bilbo considered briefly that if Gandalf had wanted to do _that_ he’d have left them to the Orcs. But she was already exhausted, and the soothing, almost magical air of Rivendell had put her too much at ease to start a quarrel. Thankfully, Gandalf appeared to be more than up to the task of, well, taking Thorin to task.

“You have no enemies here, Thorin Oakenshield,” the wizard insisted with a disapproving harrumph. “The only ill will to be found in this valley is that which you bring yourself!”

Thorin sneered at the wizard.

“Clearly you know nothing of Elves,” he snapped. “They will not care about our quest except to hinder it.”

Gandalf paused, considered this, and then nodded.

“Of course, they _will_ try to stop you,” the wizard conceded. “But we have questions that need answers.”

This said, Gandalf began to herd the Dwarves down into the valley, lecturing them all the way about tact and charm, and insisting they let him do the talking. Bilbo found that quite an agreeable arrangement, considering she wasn’t even sure she’d be able to talk to an Elf if she wanted to, let alone manage the expectations Gandalf had laid down. She instead focused on studying every curling, vine-like arch of Rivendell’s architecture.

 

It wasn’t hard to see the Hobbit’s awe. Bofur, herself, was more than a little leery. Oh, sure, she’d not had the experiences with Elves that Thorin and her kin had, but it was more than Elves that unsettled her. Bofur was a miner, and while that was more by necessity than choice, she’d grown much more accustomed to deep darkness than the airy too-open architecture that Rivendell sported. Downright unnatural, being so exposed.

Well, to each their own, but she’d have preferred a mountain anyway.

It seemed the others shared her feeling, for while Gandalf strode forward like he owned the whole valley and Bilbo was turning every which way to catch the light glinting off the white buildings, the rest of the Company marched in a huddle. They’d just passed across a stone bridge under the watchful eye of some – admittedly well-carved – stone Elf-soldiers when a black-haired Elf came down a nearby set f stairs to greet them. To Bofur he looked kind of… Flat. Too calm.

Made her want to start a ruckus. Only she didn’t.

“Mithrandir,” greeted the Elf, all serene-like, bowing with a hand to his chest.

And though she knew no Elvish, Bofur had a feeling he was talking to Gandalf – Tharkûn, what-have-you – because it sounded a lot like ‘mithril’, and what with the wizard’s silvery hair…

“Ah, Lindir!” the wizard responded cheerfully, and Bofur gave herself a little pat on the old metaphorical back.

Since she couldn’t reach hers, what with the pack on it. She let Gandalf do his talking, the charm and wit and whatnot – Bofur found herself charming enough for most, but fancy-talk with Elves and nobles and the like was beyond her ken, and better left up to anyone less suited for plain speaking. Which was the wizard, of course. Point being, Bofur busied herself adjusting her hat and her pack and patting Bombur’s shoulder and looking ‘round to make sure Bifur and Bilbo hadn’t wandered off.

And she might’ve been a miner but her ears worked just fine. She heard the little instruction King Thorin gave to her guard.

“Stay sharp.”

And Dwalin, squaring her big – and _by the Maker_ they were big, Bofur still wasn’t used to it – shoulders and trying to look menacing-like. It’d work, probably, on the Elves. But Bofur knew how Dwalin got after too much ale, all sappy and clingy. And she also knew, for whatever reason, dwarflings clung to Dwalin like coal dust on a miner.

And she should know about coal dust on miners.

Bofur’s thoughts were interrupted by a thundering of hooves. A great big company of Elves on tall horses was riding up the bridge right for them. Thorin’s shout went up over the noise – weapons up, hold your ground! So they all ringed in.

Noticing Bilbo still outside the protection of their Company’s little circle, Bofur yanked her in by the arm and stood in front of her. She was just a wee thing, it’d be so easy for the Elves and their horses to trod right on her, and that thought made Bofur’s iron stomach turn. She briefly noticed Dwalin shove Ori into the middle too, but filed it away for later, holding up her mattock and glaring with the best of them.

Thankfully the Elves have some sorta sense of hospitality and don’t trample them all underfoot, just circling around them on the horses. And the one with the shiniest armor – the leader, of course, important folks were always shinier – greeted the wizard.

“Gandalf,” he said, and sounded not too surprised but a little pleased at least so that was good.

“Lord Elrond,” Gandalf answered, his voice was bursting with relief right before he jabbered off some Elvish.

The shiny lord – Elrond, odd name but Bofur knew those Elves had funny names in general – answered back in the same manner. Bofur had a moment to think to herself the language sounded primarily like tongues before Elrond dismounted fluidly and clapped Gandalf into a hug.

Finally the Elf took pity on the rest of their Company and switched out to Westron.

“Strange,” he began slowly, in a measured way that made Bofur feel itchy and uncomfortable, “for Orcs to come so close to our borders. Something, _or someone_ , has drawn them near.”

Well, that was an accusation, if ever one’d been heard. But the wizard took it in stride, eyes on the Orc sword Elrond passed off to Lind… Lind-whatever.

“Ah…” began Gandalf sheepishly. “That _may_ have been us.”

Course Thorin was getting mighty tired of being overlooked in favor of a tatty wizard. And she probably had a piece all ready to say to the lord of the house, something less-than-charitable but hey Bofur was just along for the drink and the company. Wasn’t her place to talk down royalty. But it ended up being Elrond that spoke first.

“Welcome Thorin, heir of Thráin,” he greeted, very polite.

The prickly sensation was back at the word ‘heir’, used in place of ‘son’. And she’d be the last to advocate herself as being particularly _smart_ or _socially observant_ – that was Bifur, before the axe, of course. All the same, she wondered if this Elrond knew, about Thorin being a Dwarf-woman. It wasn’t exactly a secret, no, but there was a reason they’d dressed in trousers not skirts, beyond the obvious ease of movement. It wasn’t much safe to move about with outsiders knowing about you being a lady – especially for a king. Made you a right target. But it was easy enough to fool Elves and Men and the like, usually.

“I do not believe we have met,” Thorin answered stiffly, and Bofur knew without a doubt that the king had noticed Elrond’s careful wording too.

“You have your grandfather’s bearing,” said Elrond. “I knew Thrór when he ruled under the Mountain.”

And that was a right while ago! The miner tugged at one of her braids uncomfortably. Elves. You could never tell with Elves. Made them downright creepy. Thorin just sneered, and it did Bofur’s heart a bit of good that at least something was constant in this mess – the king’s temper!

Especially when it came to the matter of Thrór, but that was all common sense.

“ _Indeed_ ,” the Dwarf king ground out, her jaw tight. “He certainly made no mention of _you_ , to my memory.”

Ah, Thorin. Always good for setting the mood – that being abject hostility, of course.

Which prompted Elrond and his shiny armor to return to speaking Elvish again. Well. Maybe there was a bit of salvageable immaturity to these graceful Elves after all! Glóin took offense quick, though.

“What is he saying?” the redhead demanded from Gandalf in a gruff snap. “Does he offer us insult?”

But the wizard just shook his gray head, looking for all the world like a disappointed grandfather. And Bofur knew plenty about those, too.

“No, Master Glóin,” Gandalf sighed, “he is offering you food.”

Like a flip of the switch, the whole Company turned their circle inward for discussion.

“I don’t trust ‘em,” Dwalin ground out, as expected.

“We should take the hospitality offered to us,” Balin cautioned. “They are friends of Gandalf, I do not think we’ll come to harm under their watch.”

There was more muttering, mutinous mostly, until Bilbo piped up.

“My mother came here with Gandalf once,” she added, tugging at a thin chain around her neck. “She told me they treated her quite well.”

There was a long silence. Too long. Bofur clapped her hands to end it.

“Well, I’m all for it!” she decided.

And somehow, the rest all grudgingly agreed. They turned back to the Elves, who all looked a wee bit lost.

“Ah, well.” Glóin cleared his throat. “Lead on.”

 

'Lead on' didn’t take them directly to food, of course. Lord Elrond, and Bilbo thanked Yavanna for it, was too much of a host for that. Instead he sent several of the other Elves off to prepare for dinner guests, and ordered Lindir to take them to a large, open sitting room to divest themselves of their packs, which she much appreciated. The lord of the house himself indicated that Gandalf and Thorin ought to follow him, however.

 

**Dwalin, obviously, is none-too-pleased at the idea of her king being separated off from the group. In a lighter situation, Thorin might have joked with her to put her at ease, claiming she thought Thorin didn’t know how to handle herself in a fight. But among the Elves, she is too tightly-wound to attempt this. Instead, she claps the warrior on the shoulder, knocks their heads together briefly, and hands off her pack.**

**“I’ll be fine,” she manages to murmur, low enough no one else can hear.**

**As a last measure of comfort, Thorin drops her eyes to her own belt where Deathless and the Elf blade are strapped and flicks the nail of her right thumb against the inside of her index finger – the Iglishmêk for ‘armed’. Dwalin’s mouth is still twisted in a wretched snarl as Thorin heads off with the Elf and the wizard, but she does as she’s bid, at least. It almost makes Thorin’s lips turn up in a smile, but then Elrond is addressing her again and the expression falls into something flat and crudely diplomatic.**

**“I apologize for delaying your dinner, but I believe we three will have much to discuss,” says the Elf lord, his eyes cornering to the sword at Thorin’s belt. “Including those weapons of yours. And I must change – it’s unseemly to appear at the head of one’s own table in full armor. And hardly comfortable.”**

**What strikes Thorin the most – and has her mouth fighting to stay neutral and neither smirk nor scowl – is the slight note of amusement in Elrond’s tone. There is something utterly teasing about the lord, even as he is the picture of Elvish grace and decorum. Thorin hates it. But she does as she’s bid, following Elrond with Gandalf until he halts in his own rooms to quickly change.**

**It doesn’t take as long as Thorin at first suspected it might, especially considering Elrond leaves his chambers in flowing, golden robes that look like any mortal would be tripping over them. Thorin saves the insult in her mind to share with Dwalin later – that perhaps the Elves have no one skilled in hemming.**

**“You will sit with me at the high table,” Elrond says. “And I will be able to tell you more of the weapons you bear, for I can see that you are much curious about them.”**

**Thorin’s hand curls around the pommel of her new sword, but Tharkûn simply makes a few polite, sheepish noises about the whole affair. Then the Elf is leading them out to the table. Thorin, however, finds her stomach too curdled with irritation and the anxiety of being surrounded by Elves to have much of an appetite.**

**She almost longs for the Halfling’s quaint home.**

**“I’m afraid we’re not really dressed for dinner,” the wizard laments as they are led to a small table, set for three.**

**“You never are,” retorts Elrond, a slight, teasing smile on his lips.**

**Thorin does not think she has felt more uncomfortable in her life. She can see the rest of the Company already seated at two smaller tables, more suited to the size of Dwarrows and Hobbits. Her eyes flick over each member of the Company, making sure they are all accounted for. Dwalin and Balin both meet her eyes, too observant. Nori too senses her quick glance and the thief’s mouth lifts in a foxlike smile before she stuffs something off the table into her coat.**

**Thorin does not think they will be much welcome in Rivendell after their departure, but also finds herself a little pleased about it.**

**After seating themselves at Elrond’s table, there are a few moments more of pleasantries before Elrond holds out a hand towards Thorin. She is both relieved and reluctant as she hands it over, and the contradiction makes her tension even more visible.**

**Elrond just gives her a calm, pleasant look before unsheathing the sword a few inches.**

**“This is Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver,” he says of it, “a famous blade. Forged by the High Elves of the West. My kin.”**

**At that, he presses Orcrist – and isn’t that a pleasing name, Thorin thinks with an almost-smile at her lips – back into its wood and metal sheath and hands it back to her.**

**“May it serve you well,” Elrond tells her, and Thorin is not above bowing her head to acknowledge the sentiment.**

**"I have hope it will cleave goblins again," says the Dwarf king, knowing at least that is something that can be agreed upon.**

**She releases a breath she did not realize she had been holding when the sword is once more in her grasp, surprised but relieved that Lord Elrond is seemingly content to let a Dwarf bear such a well-known Elvish blade.**

**Despite what some might say of her, she does not like confrontation in places meant to be peaceful. She knows they need time to recuperate and – Mahal forbid Tharkûn be right, but he is – convince Elrond to read the map for them. But something about Orcrist sings to her, and she’d not have let the blade go from her possession lightly. She hopes the Elf does not notice the way her fingers tighten over Orcrist’s sheath.**

**Even if he does he makes no comment of it, instead turning to Gandalf, and unsheathing the wizard’s newly-acquired blade.**

**“This,” he explains, “is Glamdring, the Foe-hammer, sword of the king of Gondolin. These swords were made for the goblin wars of the First Age.”**

**Thorin’s heart almost zips as she thinks about just how old the sword she now carries truly is. So old and with such beautiful craftsmanship that she doubts its blade will ever dull. No wonder it sings to her. Though she knows very little of Elf-lore – long and full of too many complicated Elvish names – she does know that the Noldor, those Elves who founded Gondolin that Elrond claims as kin, appear in her own stories. That these are descendants of those Elves that Mahal taught his craft.**

**A shudder climbs up her thick arms and down her spine but it is not unpleasant.**

Balin saw Bilbo fidget with the little blade at her hip – paused to be momentarily thankful the Halfling at least saw the sense in not abandoning her weapon along with her pack – and smiled in a way she’d ben oft told by her sister was painfully pitying. But, given the circumstances, it was hard to help it. Lord Elrond had talked loud enough they’d both overheard, and Bilbo had set her sword in her lap and was glancing at it as if perhaps it held some great mystery, and Balin didn’t want the poor lass to be embarrassed or disappointed. Especially in front of an _Elf_ lord, no matter how accommodating.

“I wouldn’t bother, lassie,” she advised softly. “Y’see, swords are named for the great deeds they do in war.”

Her mind flitted briefly over the blades she’d known and put to rest in the years since Smaug. But Bilbo’s slightly defensive tone pulled her back to herself.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the Hobbit demanded, pulling the little blade close to her chest. “You think my sword hasn’t seen battle?”

The way she cradled the sheathed weapon was like a mother trying to herd her dwarfling away from unkind words. Balin knew that pose intimately, but squeezed her eyes shut instead of letting them alight on her powerful little sister. At last, Balin shook her head and cracked a wry smile.

“I’m not even sure it is a sword,” she explained, and then crude as it was continued, to test her theory. “More of a letter-opener, really.”

The offense on Bilbo’s face was both laughable and somehow heartening. She hadn’t expected the Halfling to form so quick a bond –let alone one at all – with her little knife of a blade. Hobbits, it seemed, did not have much of a culture of warfare, so it would have only made sense for Bilbo to not give her new weapon much regard beyond its usefulness in tight spots. But the look in her eyes was nothing if not serious in intent. That perhaps, of all that Balin had seen in the last several days, boded well for their burglar. She was becoming a bit Dwarfish.

**Thorin, who’d let herself fall into a trance, running large fingers over the designs carved into Orcrist’s sheath, comes to at the sound of Elrond’s interested, if suspicious, tone.**

**“How did you come by these?”**

**The look on Tharkûn’s face is dramatic, and that is when Thorin knows the wizard is too comfortable, will reveal too much. He’s in a storytelling mood. And she finds herself right.**

**“We found them in a troll hoard on the Great East Road, of all places,” he says with a nod of the head. “Shortly before we were ambushed by _Orcs_.”**

**He leans forward at the word ‘Orcs’, and Thorin glares although the wizard is too busy folding his napkin and attempting to commandeer Lord Elrond’s attention to realize. The Elf, though seemingly interested, cuts to the heart of the matter with brutal swiftness.**

**“And what,” he asks, “were you doing on the Great East Road?”**

**Gandalf’s expression freezes. And whether it’s embarrassment for Tharkûn and his blunder, or because she’s had quite enough of Elves for one day, or because she'd rather be on level with her kin, or because there’s not a single piece of meat on the Maker-damned table, Thorin excuses herself with a rude attempt at a smile and flint in her eyes.**

Dinner had already started off on the wrong foot, what with the lack of meat. Not that Bilbo herself was particularly bothered by it, and the panic in Dwalin’s eyes as he searched frantically for any gave her a bit of smug satisfaction. But she had heard from her mother of the feasts of the Elves, and knew that pheasant and fish was common at the tables of Rivendell. Why then the stint?

She could only assume Thorin’s poor attitude was to blame.

Still, for a dinner between Elves and Dwarves it seemed to be going at least reasonably well. Really.

Even if Kíli did keep getting confused between male and female Elves. First she’d winked at a lady harpist, then made some sort of arching comment about preferring her own kind but that Elf maidens were not so bad-looking, using one of the flute-playing Elves as example.

It had ended with loud, rude guffaws from the entire table when the Elf in question turned and revealed his face.

And that had all been before Elrond made his appearance with Gandalf and Thorin.

Still, it was just a bit of good fun at the poor young Dwarf’s expense. She was young enough to get over her mistake, Bilbo was sure. Everything would be fine, and dinner would progress normally.

Then Nori had to go and stick his foot in his mouth.

“Change the tune, why don’t you?” he grumbled at the harpist. “Feel like I’m at a funeral!”

That set off Óin, who demanded to know if someone had died. All the while Gandalf could be heard in the background attempting to espouse the virtues of their Company. All incredible feats of falsehood. But really, it could still have been salvaged, until Bofur clapped his hands together sharply.

“Alright then, there’s only one thing for it!” he announced, leaning in conspiratorially before hopping up from the low table.

“Oh, I’ve a terrible feeling about this,” Bilbo groaned into her hands as Bofur hopped up on a stone pedestal set between their two short tables.

None of the Dwarves paid her any mind, though, and with a large grin Bofur began with a cheery harmonizing note before bursting into the shortened nonsense tavern song she’d helped him compose in the Lone-lands.

 

**Thorin, who’s managed to snag a glass of wine from the lower tables – too sweet, too rich, and too weak, a lamentable trifecta – snorts into her glass and tries to hide a smile. As leader of their Company, it would not behoove her to _approve_ of the miner’s shenanigans, but, well… They’re dining with Elves. And Elrond’s little stooge, the dark-haired one – by Durin’s beard, what was his name? Lindir? – he, anyway, seems particularly horrified. **

**She can’t help it if she finds the expression comical, can she?**

Worst of all, the other Dwarves in the company joined in singing with Bofur, keeping time by pounding on the table. On any other day, in any other situation, she’d have been irrationally pleased they’d all committed her shortened verse to memory. On any other day, she’d have joined in, or at least delighted at how energetically the Dwarves chanted and sang. But they were in _Rivendell_ , eating dinner with _Lord Elrond_.

Bofur danced about as he sang, playing an imaginary fiddle, and eventually the rest of the Company, riled already, began to throw food at him.

 

**And to see the burglar’s cheeks redden like apples at the mortification of her ridiculous tavern song alighting in the air of Imladris – of all possible places – is the crowning jewel of the entire situation. With no food to throw, and no one else close enough to blame it on even if she had, the Dwarf king just presses her mouth to hold in a grin and stomps her heavy right boot in time. As Bofur continues to sing, Thorin decides it’s an insult to the song to keep drinking the berry-water the Elves of Rivendell espouse as wine, and she pulls a flask from the folds of her clothing.**

**She’d been saving the contents within for a celebration. Ruining Elrond’s dinner is celebration enough.**

**When Bofur, dancing about, turns in her direction, Thorin raises the flask to her.**

 

It was a complete and utter disaster. The Elves were horrified, of course.

Well, except Lord Elrond, whose expression told anyone looking that he really thought he ought to have expected such from his guests. That didn’t mean he deserved it though, Bilbo thought to herself miserably. He’d been such a gracious host already to his dirty, unexpected guests. She herself smelled like troll, and the Dwarves smelled worse, if possible. And yet not a single Elf had commented on their stench or attire. At least in a language anyone in the Company could understand.

Before any more damage could be done, Bilbo snatched up a few pastries that’d not been used for the Dwarfish food fight and scurried away. It was terribly rude, yes, but she was small and hopefully no one would miss her in the confusion of a dozen rowdy Dwarves.

 

**Thorin feels her smile immediately drop as the Halfling flees the table. None of the rest of the Company seems to notice her exodus, but then many of them are still in the middle of tossing food at their off-key impromptu minstrel.**

**Anyway, she’s a king, and the leader of their Company, and she will _not_ be letting any of them wander Rivendell alone. Gandalf seems to feel them safe enough in its halls, but Elves are Elves. Maybe not openly hostile, and certainly no less rude than she has admittedly been, but they can’t be counted on when on comes to trouble. She doubts any one of _them_ will go looking should the burglar turn up missing.**

**That worrying thought in mind, Thorin takes long strides after their Hobbit.**

 

The Company had been offered an entire wing of rooms by Lord Elrond, who Bilbo was beginning to suspect had the patience of Eru himself. The Dwarves were certainly even less well-behaved in Rivendell than they’d been in Bag End, but Elrond barely batted an eye at each new indignity his household was forced to endure. She wondered if it came from living so long, or if it was more his temperament in general that allowed him such outward serenity.

Regardless, their allotted rooms seemed like the perfect place to head, and she still remembered how to reach them. It took a few minutes, but not many, and at last she found herself at the sitting room they’d left their packs in.

Relieved, Bilbo turned to close the doors behind her, but found her vision suddenly filled with musky brown-gray fur. She tilted her head up.

“… Thorin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, I think, the first time I've fudged some Iglishmêk in this story. It will not be the last (not least because I do plan to give Bifur some more screen time). Bear with me, I'm just making this up as I go because the only instance of Iglishmêk Tolkien gives us is the signs for 'listen!' and 'I'm listening'.


	9. Rest for the Wicked and a Fine Filthy Fountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company begins to settle into Rivendell, Thorin attempts tact, cleanliness is arguably achieved, and Bilbo has an inkling of troublesome attachments to come.

**The surprised look on the burglar’s face is a bit disconcerting, somehow. It isn’t as if Thorin needs an excuse to check on the members of her own Company. There’s no reason for the Halfling to be so shocked.**

**“You left quickly,” Thorin tries to explain, scuffing her knuckles against the palm of her opposite hand. “Is… Are you well?”**

**The Hobbit’s smile is fond and small and pleasing.**

**“I am fine, Thorin,” she answers, shaking her head and causing her tied-back curls to bounce. “Just, ah… A little embarrassed.”**

**“The song,” Thorin guesses with a shamed wince. “I apologize if we—”**

**“Thorin.”**

**And then the Hobbit has a hand on Thorin’s arm, and the Dwarf king can feel heat climbing the back of her neck. There’s something strong and reassuring in Miss Baggins’ touch as she squeezes the arm gently before her small, Hobbit hands return to rest at her side.**

**“It’s…” the Halfling looks a little taken aback. “It’s fine, really. Well, we all ought to apologize to Lord Elrond for ruining his dinner, but otherwise.”**

**Thorin attempts to convey, raising her brows and lowering her eyelids, that this is about as likely to happen as Smaug inviting them all in for tea when they reach Erebor. She takes the ridiculously large sigh the Halfling heaves a moment later as confirmation that her message was received and can’t help the quick smile that flits across her lips – no more than a flash of teeth.**

**Then she hears the loud stomping of Dwarfish boots on stone.**

 

The rest of the Company trooped into the sitting room looking rather pleased with themselves, if not as well-fed as they desired. And once they were all gathered together, Thorin explained very firmly to all of them that they would not be splitting up to sleep in individual rooms. The Company was to bed down in the sitting room.

While Bilbo had done the like often enough as a fauntling – camping out in the parlor in front of the hearth and pretending she was on some grand adventure – she felt they’d all deserved some time apart. No one, it seemed, agreed with her. The other Dwarves were enthusiastic about Thorin’s plan, and in fact espoused his leadership for making sure they weren’t vulnerable to attack while in the halls of the Elves.

Ridiculous, really.

As such, she took the time to explore the suite Elrond had offered for their use, and found six bedrooms with wonderfully large, soft beds, and a bathing chamber. Bilbo took the time to quickly scrub herself off and change into a new set of clothes from her pack before night fell, if only out of respect to her hosts. And it was nice to finally feel at least a bit clean after camping on the road.

She would have preferred to fall into one of the nice, soft beds the Elves had provided, but Thorin insisted once again when she suggested this that no one was to leave the safety of their large chosen room.

Which was ridiculous, but he was the king.

Also Dwalin had bodily carried Bilbo over to their huddled mass of bedrolls when she attempted to sneak off to a room with a bed.

“Nobody goes off alone,” he grunted, settling down onto a bedroll with his arms across his chest. “Thorin’s orders.”

“I’m telling you, Lord Elrond is not going to do anything to us!” snapped Bilbo, scowling.

“I’m sure he’s not,” Balin said placatingly, “but I think we would all feel better if we stuck together, lass.”

“There’ll be no finding you if you go off and get lost,” Glóin added as he smoothed out his bedroll. “And I doubt our king would be pleased about that.”

And though it was a little immature of her – perhaps the Dwarves were rubbing off on her more than she thought – Bilbo huffed and stomped over to where the Company had built a little fire in the middle of the stone floor, using table legs and bits of broken furniture. Which she’d also have to find time to apologize to Lord Elrond for, of course. Honestly.

But though her expression probably resembled a thundercloud more than anything, Bilbo suddenly found Bombur sitting beside her. When she looked up at him he just smiled, a bit hesitant, and offered her a cooked sausage.

“Sorry, it’s a bit squished,” he mumbled as she plucked it from his hand. “Bofur threw it at me.”

Bilbo chuckled, hearing that, but took a bite.

“Tastes fine,” she said.

And it did. Bilbo sat with Bombur for another hour or so, but was soon after bundled off to bed at Dori’s insistence. Her only consolation was that the silver-haired Dwarf gave both his brothers the same treatment.

“Get offa me!” Nori protested, flailing a bit.

But then Dori had him by the ear and it was clear any further resistance would be in vain.

“I’m the eldest,” Dori proclaimed, “and so long as you’re under my roof—”

“We’re not under _your roof_!” Nori returned, stumbling along after his brother and clutching the wrist of the hand tugging his ear. “We’re hardly under a roof at all!”

Ori, who’d been tucked firmly into a bedroll right after Bilbo, just gave a little secret smile. Then, tucking his tongue between his teeth, he grabbed his journal with slow movements, so as not to catch Dori’s eye. Nori and Dori were both still struggling – and complaining loudly – but their little brother just pulled a piece of charcoal from behind his ear and started sketching.

“Look, I don’t need to be babied—!”

“If you act like a young hooligan, I’ll treat you like one, Nori, don’t think I won’t just because you’ve been off doing—doing Durin-knows-what!”

“Y’weren’t complaining when I was bringing home coin for Ma’s medicine!”

“Don’t you dare, Nori! Why, I-I ought to disown you!”

“Go ahead and try, then! We’re already off to fight a Maker-damned dragon, what more d’you think _you_ can do?”

Bilbo winced. The fight sounded particularly harsh. And yet, when she glanced over at Ori to see how the poor lad was handling it, he had a small, contented smile on his face. As if sensing her gaze, he glanced up and his cheeks colored sharply.

 

Ori had just finished the curve of Dori’s scowl when she felt eyes on her. It was Bilbo, looking rather concerned. And the Dwarf supposed that, well, if she hadn’t grown up around Dori and Nori, she’d have been worried about their argument too. And it would seem strange to say that it was perfectly fine – she knew it wasn’t, not really. But…

“Nori’s not around much,” she whispered, glancing between the Hobbit, her sisters, and her sketch with the ease of practice. “It’s just… Even if they argue, I’m glad they’re both here with me, is all.”

She caught Bilbo’s slow nod from her peripheral vision, but did not look up from the sketch again. Which was rude, but, well… She was working on Nori’s eyes, and they were always so hard to get right. She was much better with portraits, honestly, but it’d been a while since her sisters had had a row, and the mix of defiance and love on Nori’s face was something she missed when her sister got upset for real and left home for long periods of time.

Dori’d kicked her out over a dozen times in the last decade.

And it was harder to see her oldest sister staring out the window with red eyes and a cup of lukewarm tea than it was to see the two of them go at each other. Ori smiled a bit wryly and sketched out the last few lines of Dori’s strong hand.

“May I see?”

Ori blinked, clutching the journal to her chest instinctively. But when she saw Bilbo shrink back, she turned it around and offered it out. The Hobbit almost laughed aloud as she accepted the book, but had the sense to cover her mouth with a hand because Dori had finally wrestled Nori into her bedroll and their argument had lowered to quiet snapping and threats about what would happen to Nori if she snuck out of bed.

“That’s brilliant, Ori,” Bilbo breathed at last, a smile lighting up her face.

Suddenly air was a lot harder to get into her lungs, and Ori could feel her cheeks burning.

“Thanks,” she mumbled.

But then Bilbo broke artist taboo, and flipped back through the journal. Most of it was Ori’s account of the trip so far, which she didn’t altogether mind, but there were also—

“Oh, wow. Is… That Dwalin?” the Hobbit asked quietly. “These look old.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Ori snatched the journal back. She was prepared to apologize, really, but Bilbo beat her to it.

“Sorry. I… I didn’t realize.”

Ori shrugged, not sure what she could really say. How exactly did one go about explaining loose-leaf sketches of the king’s guard tucked into their journal? It was only, Ori was rather proud of them. And it was easier to sneak a peek at a sketch than it was to risk Dwalin noticing her staring.

Mahal knew she reacted poorly when Nori did it.

But then, maybe that was just Nori? It was hard to tell.

“They’re private,” Ori murmured at last, not sure what else to say.

But before Bilbo could respond, Dori was standing over them with her square hands on her wide hips and ordering them to go to sleep already. After the day they’d all had, Ori had no trouble falling asleep. Her legs were dead tired, and her eyes too since they’d not gotten any sleep the night before due to trolls.

Tucking her journal to her side, Ori closed her eyes and slept.

 

**Thorin Oakenshield is not a morning Dwarf. Oh, she can get by on very few hours of sleep, can walk for days with almost no rest, can wake up when the light of the new day was still gray and purple in the sky.**

**That doesn’t mean she has to _like_ it.**

**“Thorin Oakenshield, get up this instant!”**

**She wants to groan at the meddling wizard, impatiently tapping his staff against the stone floor – wants to, but that would be undignified. She’s not a dwarfling, in fact very far from it. So she eases up as elegantly as she’s able, tossing her hair from her face with a shake of the head and a single hand.**

**“What?” Thorin growls, setting her jaw and staring upwards.**

**“We are meeting with Lord Elrond to discuss your father’s map,” the wizard explains.**

**And it isn’t as if Thorin can complain, because anything to further their quest is of utmost importance. She resigns herself to what little rest she’d gotten the previous night and stands, throwing on her cloak. Thankfully, Balin is already awake.**

**Less fortunately, there’s clear amusement dancing in her eyes, to match Gandalf’s. Thorin really, really hates that. But she’s a king and she has important things to discuss, so she strides from the Company’s room in the wizard’s wake, with Balin at her elbow.**

**Lord Elrond of course looks utterly resplendent when they meet him in his – admittedly impressive, Ori would enjoy it, Thorin knew – library. Even worse, he seems both colder – offended, no doubt, by their dinner behavior – and more amused than the evening before.**

**“Gandalf tells me you have something I might aid you in reading,” the Elf intones, bowing his head slightly in greeting.**

**Thorin says nothing, but her hand reaches into her outer tunic where the map is stored. She still does not like this plan, at all. Surely there must be someone not an Elf they can go to. She is torn, and knows it shows on her face in a grimace. It is unwise to trust Elves – they find it all too easy to forsake their allies. But she is the king and she must make sacrifices, unpleasant decisions, for the sake of her people.**

**“Our business is no concern of the Elves,” she settles on at last, but does not remove her hand from the map tucked away in her clothes.**

**“For goodness sake, Thorin, show him the map!” orders Tharkûn, brow pinched in annoyance.**

**Elrond, however, is calm. Thorin likes that. He does not seem, at least, too eager.**

**“It is the legacy of my people,” the Dwarf king says sharply as she draws the folded map out, keeping it held tightly to her chest. “It is mine to protect, as are its secrets.”**

**As she speaks, she does not draw her gaze from the Elf lord’s face. The look in his eyes – a little high, a little mocking – is gone. Instead, he looks at her patiently, with something like understanding. And it annoys her, but she does really believe him.**

**The wizard, of course, is either blind to the exchange or too impatient to wait for it to reach fruition.**

**“Secrets you do not even know! Save me from the stubbornness of Dwarves!” he laments, tapping his staff on the floor. “Your pride will be your downfall. You stand here in the presence of one of the few in Middle Earth who can read that map. _Show it_ to Lord Elrond.”**

**Just to spite him she pretends to think on it, though the decision is already made. She is not a fool. She does not trust Elves. But for all his mockery and cool amusement, Elrond has so far been fairly harmless. He is not Thranduil.**

**Thorin steps forward to hand over the map.**

**And then Balin is gripping her arm, having second thoughts.**

**“Thorin, no!” the elder Dwarf urges.**

**But while she knows it is always wise to listen to Balin’s counsel, Thorin is king. Has been king in deed far longer than title as she waited in vain for her father’s return. And she knows at some point she must make her own decisions. The wizard has not steered them wrong yet – even in choice of the Halfling, who Thorin would rather see safe at home in her Hobbit hole and not have to worry about. Foolish as the creature is, she’s got a sharp enough mind. Thorin still can’t shake the feeling that she will have the Hobbit’s blood on her hands before the end, however. It will be hard enough to ensure the survival of the entire rest of the Company, who all know how to defend themselves.**

**Thorin blinks hard, pulling herself from the spiral of thoughts. She brushes Balin away, and offers the map to Elrond in a solid, unmistakable motion.**

**He accepts it gently.**

**“Erebor,” the Elf lord comments, walking away from them with the map in hand. “What is your interest in this map?”**

**Thorin moves to speak, but the wizard interrupts her, blathering about academic interest. The Dwarf king sees perhaps how this cover is wise, but she is also not ashamed of their quest, and she has a feeling that Lord Elrond may already know why they have come.**

**“Cirth Ithil,” he says suddenly, head cocked slightly to the side in a way that Thorin has learned is how Elves show interest.**

**The wizard nods as if he knew all along.**

**“Moon runes. Of course,” he says, looking down at Balin and Thorin. “An easy thing to miss.”**

**Thorin is not impressed.**

**“That is true, in this case,” Elrond acquiesces. “These runes can only be read by the light of a moon of the same shape and season on which they were originally written.”**

**That does not sound promising. Thorin’s mouth twists in a slight frown.**

**“Can you read them?”**

**The Elf lord glances back at her, and there is a deep curiosity in his too-old eyes. He glances down at the map again, then hands it back to her.**

**“I will be able to, in one week’s time,” he assures. “These runes were written on a Midsummer’s Eve by the light of a crescent moon nearly two hundred years ago. A similar night will soon be upon us. But until then, I am afraid I cannot help. You are welcome to stay in Imladris until then.”**

**Thorin can see Balin untense once the map is back into their possession. Her lips twist up, but she merely bows to the Elf.**

**“Then we are grateful for your continued hospitality,” the Dwarf king says and wonders snidely if the wizard will be shocked at her use of manners. “If that is all, I must return to my Company.”**

**She doesn’t stay to get any sort of permission from Elrond, because she’s already been much more polite to him than any Elf she’s met in the last half-century. Balin follows after her with quick strides.**

**Gandalf stays behind.**

 

When Bilbo woke up, most of the rest of the Company was already milling about. Bifur was down below their balcony examining the flowers in the bushes lining Rivendell’s pathways. Fíli and Kíli both looked rather agitated, as did Dwalin, who was sharpening an axe like he was about to start an execution. Bombur, Dori, Óin, and Glóin were all still asleep in their bedrolls. Nori was perched precariously on the slender balcony railing. His gaze was mischievous and amused and trained firmly on Dwalin. The Hobbit wondered with a wince if Nori had discovered Ori’s sketches – and subsequently his likely crush – on the inked Dwarf.

But before she could speculate further, Bofur had grabbed her by the hand.

“C’mon, lass! Let’s go join Bifur!”

“Wait for me!” Kíli called, and had rushed up to loop an arm through Bilbo’s free one immediately.

And so it was that when Thorin and Balin – who had been conspicuously absent – returned, it was to find the entire company out in the sunshine on one of the paths below.

“Lord Elrond can read our map, but not until a week hence. I suggest we all rest up and regain our strength,” Thorin told them all, once they’d assembled in some sense of order.

And if that wasn’t the best news Bilbo had heard all week! She’d not had time to peruse Rivendell the night before, and she wanted to commit its beauty to memory – and perhaps ask Ori to sketch some of it for her. Not that Bilbo wasn’t a rather dab hand at drawing, herself, but Ori’s skills were much more polished and Bilbo had no journal to sketch in.

“What should we do first?” Nori wondered, stroking his beard as he thought.

And while everyone else seemed stumped, Bilbo’s brain caught up with her nose and provided the answer. It hadn’t been so noticeable with them all together, but against the pleasant scent of Rivendell’s flowers, it was immediately obvious what did _not_ smell so nice.

“Baths, baths are a must!” Bilbo insisted. “You lot smell absolutely rank! I can hardly believe Lord Elrond let us all stay here so long without!”

Fíli laughed brightly at that, brandishing Ori’s armpit as a weapon. The Hobbit shrunk away. Sweaty Dwarf was probably the most horrid smell she had ever encountered, and that included the pot of stew the Trolls had been stirring when she came upon them. By Yavanna, it included the _troll snot_ she’d found herself covered in!

On that note, she would need to wash her clothes from the previous day thoroughly during their stay.

“Will you be bathing with us, then, lass?” Balin asked demurely, as if that was something _perfectly normal_.

“Yes, bathe with us!” Kíli chimed in. “You can make sure we’re clean to your satisfaction! And help me comb my hair…?”

The final inquiry was shy in a heartwarmingly endearing way, and it was admittedly difficult to resist the princess’s dark, wide eyes. But to think, that Dwarves bathed all together, with no regards between the sexes…! Bilbo hadn’t been comfortable with that sort of thing since she was a wild little fauntling shucking her clothes to splash in the Shire’s streams with her cousins.

Bilbo, blushing to the tips of her pointed ears, dithered senselessly.

“I… That is to say… How about I comb your hair out afterwards…?”

And with that, the Hobbit darted off.

 

**“Bit of a shy nip, isn’t she?” Óin says as soon as Bilbo’s turned the corner.**

**Thorin snorts, but can’t help but agree.**

**“Maybe she thought this great lump was joining us!” Bofur teases, elbowing Bombur.**

**He mutters some unintelligible protest, twisting the loop of his beard between meaty hands, face burning as red as his hair. Glóin rolls his eyes and slaps the younger Dwarf on the shoulder.**

**“Oh aye, that’s enough!” he insists, brushing Bofur aside. “C’mon, lad, let’s go get cleaned up.”**

**As they trot off, Thorin surveys what’s left of her company. Eleven fine and – though she’s loath to admit the Halfling is right – pungent lady Dwarrows.**

**“I saw a nice big fountain ‘t’d be perfect,” Nori chips in suddenly, jutting her thumb behind her. “That way.”**

**Fíli and Kíli turn to each other, wicked grins across their faces. The idea of desecrating some important Elvish fountain with their washing does appeal to Thorin, and it’s not as if she’s particularly ashamed of her body, but she’d much rather do her bathing in a place with less… Sky. She rolls her eyes and waves off her nieces to make fools of themselves.**

 

Nori could hardly believe her luck when Dwalin joined the group intent on bathing in the clearly decorative Elvish fountain. And not just because it would give her ample opportunity to ogle the guards-dwarf’s backside. Which, really, was well enough. But it also meant a chance to rifle through Dwalin’s belongings for something worth nicking.

Stealing from the Elves was all well and good – they had some very nice-looking tableware and candelabras. Trinkets, really, no one’d miss ‘em. But Nori had spent more than one decade staying specifically out of Dwalin’s way, and it’d be no fun not to take advantage now when they were members of the Company together and Nori couldn’t be jailed for a bit of thievery.

Also, she added to her list of positive tallies, it gave her more time to tease Ori as little sisters ought to be teased. And if a rattail to the bum wasn’t good sisterly bonding, Nori didn’t know what was.

“Nori!”

“Race you to the top of the fountain!” she sang, reveling in the irritated scowl on Ori’s face.

But then she had to dart out of the way of Dori’s hands, likely bent on tugging her Mahal-damned ear off again. And she’d never admit it, but she was glad they’d have another week of this, because she’d really…

Well. She’d missed being part of a family again.

 

Lindir let out a clear sound of mixed disgust and distress as he spied the guests he had been so vehemently complaining about in Sindarin.

“In the _fountain_!” he lamented. “… Are they…? That is, with the tavern songs and the… The beards… I had no idea they were Dwarf _women_.”

Elrond averted his eyes from the scene politely, feeling a pain beginning to build behind his temples. While it was true that he too was a bit baffled, in his many, many years he had learned that when it came to Aulë’s children, it was simply Best Not To Ask.

If possible, his initial rush of pity for the Halfling – at dinner the previous night – grew stronger.

“Leave them be, they’re surely attempting to rile us for their own amusement,” Elrond said softly.

He regretted heavily making the mistake of starting the game by not having any meat served at dinner when he knew Dwarves to be so fond of it. His sons of course were sure to be delighted at the spectacle of a dozen naked Dwarves in a fountain. But he had to admit at least that they’d gotten their rather impish natures from him.

Unfortunate, but true.

If he’d been listening to the part of himself that sounded suspiciously like Celebrian, he would have foregone any mischief towards their guests. Ah well. At least Lindir would be forced to suffer with him, anyway.

The two of them hurriedly continued on.

 

It took Bilbo a while before she found an Elf that could help her with her troll-befouled garments. But she was assured that she need not do the washing herself, that they would be returned to the guest wing once thoroughly cleaned. Having not been looking forward to the intense scrubbing surely necessary to purge her waistcoat of troll snot, she thanked him profusely.

Heart settled and basking in the beauty of Rivendell, Bilbo returned to the balcony of their rooms and gazed out at the lovely view. Her eyes drooped as she daydreamed about Bag End and her garden, wondering how Holman and young Hamfast were getting on. How old Saradoc would be when she finally returned to finish his baby blanket. Adventures came with such uncertainty.

When a touch came at her elbow, she jumped and whirled about. Startled, it took a long time to process the image in front of her.

Kili, hair down and messy and wet, was holding out a comb.

“What?” Bilbo blurted out in confusion.

“You promised to comb my hair,” Kíli offered in explanation, glancing down and away, chastened.

“Oh, Kíli, of course…!” exclaimed the Hobbit, hurriedly taking the offered comb. “I’m so sorry, I—I completely lost track of time.”

The smile on the princess’s face returned, though it was small and a little wary. Bilbo gave a smile of her own to reassure her, then patted the stone bench which sat by the edge of the balcony. She was relieved to see Kíli’s bounce come back at that, and the Dwarf princess deposited herself on the bench, facing out at Rivendell so Bilbo had a good view of her long, damp hair. With careful fingers, Bilbo separated out a section of hair and began to brush through it with the comb, halting each time she reached a particularly bad snarl to pick it out gently.

Kíli, for her part, leaned into the soft touches like a cat in want of warmth. The young princess hummed a little tune, something of an off-key lullaby that melted Bilbo’s heart. Though she had already seen Kíli in battle – seen her shoot at Wargs with steel-flint in her eyes and a steady hand when Bilbo’s own had been shaking terribly, seen her brandish a sword, alone against three gigantic trolls – it was tough to remember how true a soldier the young Dwarf was. More than anything, Bilbo admitted to herself, it was some long-unnecessary parenting instinct. Kíli was so bright and sweet, and so very very young. Though chronologically she allegedly had several decades on Bilbo, Kíli was barely to her majority by Dwarf reckoning. The youthful life that shone out of her was something precious.

“Miss Baggins?”

The Hobbit was startled from her musing, and realized that though she had finished combing some time ago, she still had Kíli’s hair pooled between her hands.

“Sorry, I got a bit distracted. All done.”

Kíli turned, dark locks swishing lightly.

“Thank you,” she said with a sunlight smile.

Bilbo just nodded and returned the comb, trying to blink the sudden, intense fondness from her eyes. She had only known these Dwarves for a short while, it would be presumptuous to think she had the right to mother the princess.

 

She sought a lonesome corner in one of the gardens and spent the rest of the day relaxing and pressing the pads of her fingers to velvet-soft petals; just enjoying the ability to spend time with growing things again in a peaceful environment. But it still did not banish the odd motherly feelings stirring in her chest. Bilbo slept restlessly that night, troubled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be two or three more Rivendell chapters, I think, before we head out to the Misty Mountains. Next up is the long-awaited(?) tale of Belladonna and Bungo's epic romance.


	10. And What Became of Fair Belladonna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo tells the story of her parents' whirlwind courtship to a group of chatty Dwarves, while also managing to give them a brief crash course on Hobbit society. Also she's not a princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew -- ok, lots of things to say here.
> 
> First of all, we're starting out with Bifur this chapter, and I really hope I do her justice!
> 
> Secondly, the Khuzdul she can't remember the translation for is the word for "hope", as provided by Dwarrow Scholar's English-Neo-Khuzdul dictionary.
> 
> Third, I was intending to do an entire day in this chapter, but the storytelling ran a bit long, so the next chapter will pick up in the afternoon of the same day and carry on from there.
> 
> Fourth... I use the word "queer" twice in this chapter -- meaning strange, not as a slur or reclaimed LGBT+ umbrella term, which I think should be fairly obvious from context and not interfere with the story but if seeing that word unexpectedly in the narrative will startle or offend you, just be warned, it's in there.

Bifur spent the first official day of the Company’s rest in Rivendell wandering around the Elves’ gardens. The sweet smell of the flowers was soothing. It reminded her of… Of… Bifur scrunched her face and squeezed her eyes shut, but the words would not come. Then she thumped the heel of her right hand into her forehead – instinctively missing the axeblade after so many decades getting used to its presence.

Still nothing.

But the feeling the flowers gave her was warm and familiar and soothing, the way a hug or a press of the forehead would be. A lover’s kiss. She’d had a lover, once, hadn’t she?

But thinking made her ball up her hands, and she’d ended up crushing the flowers she’d reached out to stroke. Bifur frowned. She had to keep…

_Adjun_.

She couldn’t recall the Westron, for all that she, like every Dwarf, had learned Westron first, had muddled through it in the child-years so that she could learn Khuzdul perfectly as Mahal intended. Speaking Westron was lost to her, words became mush in her mouth, or else came out Khuzdul without permission, but it was rare a bit of Westron escaped her mind completely. Though perhaps Mahal’s sacred tongue was better for strong feeling-words like _adjun_. Focused them, gave them purpose.

Like she had. Like Thorin’s quest had given her.

A smile stole over Bifur’s lips then.

Until there was a noise from directly behind her, and she whipped about with a large, squarish knife in her left hand. In response, her interloper squeaked and held up tiny hands in surrender before reeling back and falling into the grass.

The little Hobbit looked like she’d about had the life startled from her, and Bifur lowered her blade with a frown on her face. As she tucked the knife away, she made the signs for a generic apology in Iglishmêk, consisting of running her thumb along the nails of her other four fingers – index downwards – and pressing the hand to her chest.

The Hobbit just blinked in response. Not that Bifur had expected her to understand, really, but it was safer to use Iglishmêk with Elves around. Khuzdul was sacred. It would sound wrong in Rivendell’s wispy halls. Which were pretty, in Bifur’s opinion, no matter _what_ Bofur said about too much airy space.

Oh. Right. Bilbo.

Bifur blinked hard, shook her head to collect it – rattling her beads in the process – and then hauled the Hobbit to her feet.

“Ah, yes, thank you Bifur—”

Bilbo cut off abruptly when Bifur’s hand shot out. But the Dwarf was a bit too mesmerized to be bothered with propriety, because she’d spotted something unexpectedly shining as she pulled Bilbo up. Well, unexpected wasn’t quite right. She’d seen the Hobbit clutching something around her neck several times when she was nervous, had suspected it was a necklace, but had no chance to sate her curiosity.

With one thick index finger, Bifur prodded at the two small rings looped over the chain of Bilbo’s necklace. They were clear, filled with flowers, and Bifur’s chest felt full of the warm feeling again.

 

Bilbo’s heart was in her throat and her blood was in her cheeks as Bifur’s finger traced against her collar while he examined her necklace. Once she’d collected herself, the Hobbit stumbled back a few steps.

“Ah, they—” Bilbo’s fingers closed around the chain anxiously. “They’re my parents’ marriage rings.”

Bifur blinked and tilted his head, then made a shooing motion that the Hobbit assumed meant she should continue to explain. She smiled a little, sadly. It’d been a while since the story had seen open air, after all. Everyone in Hobbiton knew the tale. With a deep sigh, Bilbo leaned back against the wall just outside the garden entrance they’d been standing in and thought about how to begin.

“My mother, Belladonna Took, was the ninth child, and the first daughter, of the Old Took,” she said slowly, dropping her hand away from the necklace. “He had twelve children, you see – a great number, even for Hobbits. After her came my aunts Donnamira and Mirabella, and they were nearly always together. All very accomplished Hobbit lasses, and all very wise and prudent. Belladonna had dark, curly hair and small hands and shapely feet. And while the Tooks are all known for being a bit… Well, a bit odd, Belladonna was one of the strangest of the lot. Always going off on ventures outside the Shire’s borders. Bree, Rivendell… She even went on a real adventure with Gandalf once, I think.”

Bilbo came back to herself all at once with the scratching of a pen on paper and found Ori seated before her on the ground, next to Bifur. As silence fell, the young scribe looked up and blushed to the rounded edges of his ears.

“Ah, sorry, I just…” Ori stammered.

Bilbo managed a chuckle.

“I don’t mind,” she told him. “But I doubt it will be a very exciting story, by Dwarf standards.”

Ori just shrugged, his cheeks still pink.

“I like love stories.”

“Love story? Is Bilbo telling a story?” Kíli called, peering around the corner before plopping down in front of Bilbo too.

Fíli, of course, followed right after her and settled in next to Bifur. Bilbo was torn between being flummoxed that so many Dwarves were interested in a silly Hobbit romance, and preening because, well, it had been a good long while since she’d had an audience to tell a good tale to. She glanced around to check for any more lingering Dwarves. Seeing none, she shrugged and continued her story.

“My father, on the other hand, was a Baggins. His hair was fairer, he was much rounder, and his feet were large. A very attractive Hobbit lad indeed, by all standards. Being the eldest child, Bungo my father was to be the head of the entire Baggins family,” said Bilbo wistfully. “Very well-to-do, the Bagginses, and they never did anything unexpected or had any adventures at all.”

Kíli’s expression soured just the slightest, and Bilbo hid a smile. Ori, for his part, had gone back to writing down the tale, looking between the storyteller and his journal with rapt attention.

“No one ever knew what Bungo saw in a wild, reckless Hobbit like Belladonna, but he loved her desperately. Only, he was simply a very respectable Hobbit after all. Not built for adventuring. Still, he wanted to do something that would catch her attention, because she had rejected every suitor who’d ever come to call – what few there were. And most of those were due to her great beauty, or her being the Thain’s favorite daughter.”

“What’s a Thain?”

Bilbo jumped, startled, and quite nearly fell down at the sudden intrusion from behind her. Out from around the corner shuffled Dwalin, expression a little petulant at having been caught. Ori scooted slightly to the side to make the large warrior a place to sit, and he took it. Bilbo decided not to comment on Dwalin’s hiding.

“Ah, the Thain… Well,” she shrugged. “The Thain is in charge of the Shire, really. My cousin Fortinbras is the current Thain, and he makes sure everything runs smoothly. Well, he shares power with the Mayor, and the Brandybucks have a hand in most everything too, but…”

Several eyebrows raised, and Bifur made a flurried series of motions. Seeing them, Kíli nodded with a pensive look on her face.

“Since you’re related to the Thain… Does that mean you’re a princess too?” she put forth for them both.

Bilbo, flustered, fluttered her hands.

“What? No, no!” the Hobbit insisted. “There’s no royalty in the Shire, _no thank you_. We don’t need _that_ sort of trouble.”

The Dwarves looked between themselves, uncomprehending.

“But the Thain’s in charge?” Dwalin asked, to clarify.

Bilbo blinked, then nodded.

“And the title’s passed down the family line?” Fíli added.

“Well, yes, usually, I suppose,” Bilbo mused. “I mean, the… The Thain is elected, that is chosen by-by the people of the Shire. But it’s been a long time since it hasn’t followed the Tooks. They’re quite well-off, for supposedly being a bit mad, and no one really wants all the bother that comes with the title but them, since it means having to deal with the Rangers and other Big Folk.”

The entire group was silent at that, looking at Bilbo as if she ought to be realizing something. Ridiculous! No matter what the Dwarves said, being Thain was not like being royalty at all! She huffed and continued her story.

“ _Anyway_ , we in the Shire make marriage bands by preserving plants in tree resin, like so,” she said, unhooking her necklace carefully and holding out the rings for all to see. “And to prove his love for Belladonna, Bungo was determined to find the plant of her namesake, at the banks of the Withywindle deep in the Old Forest.”

Although seemingly engrossed in the story, none of the Dwarves appeared properly worried for their protagonist. Bilbo blinked. Well. Though they had lived in the Blue Mountains, perhaps none of her audience had heard tales of the Old Forest, or the Barrow Downs to its east. She clipped her necklace back around her neck and settled onto the bench more comfortably.

“Now, the Old Forest is a queer place, full of magic. Some say the trees are awake, that they move around to trick you. And the Withywindle, the small river running through it, is at the heart of all the strangeness. It’s said that the spirit of the river drowns folk, that the trees help lead them astray, all in revenge for the borders of the Old Forest having been cut down many hundreds of years ago to build Buckland. Many a traveler’s disappeared into that forest, and never come back out again. And to the East, there are the Barrow Downs, old gravesites of Men haunted by Barrow Wights – tall, cloaked wraith-like figures which drag anyone unfortunate enough to wander onto their land into the Barrows and feed off their life force.”

Kíli’s mouth had fallen into an ‘o’ shape that pleased Bilbo immensely.

“So of course,” she continued, “it was the sort of place no Baggins would ever set foot in. But in he went, one morning, with only a knapsack containing two apples, a block of cheese, and a loaf of bread. And no protection but the walking-stick he was using to carry his bundle.”

Each of the Dwarves’ hands itched towards their weapons at that, as if to check they were still there. They’d not divested themselves of the items once, except when bathing – apparently in the fountain, she’d heard at breakfast from a couple of laughing dark-haired twins who asked her if they’d done much the same in _her_ home. Point being, Bilbo suddenly felt an odd rush of fondness for the suspicious lot, who had still dropped their weapons in her front hall without a single thought.

“He spent all day in the Old Forest, trying to find the Withywindle. And though normally the trees seemed to lead travelers there when they shuffled about, he couldn’t seem to find it no matter what he did. He tripped many times, and ripped three holes in his best traveling jacket and one in his waistcoat. It wasn’t long before the day started to grow dark. He knew if he were smart he would try and get out of the Old Forest before nightfall, but love has made a Hobbit do madder things, and he was as stubborn as any Baggins alive. So he curled up at the base of one of the trees and fell right asleep.”

“Seems rather foolish, if you ask me.”

Bilbo was almost completely unsurprised at that point, seeing Óin shuffle up to their group. He was followed by his younger brother, who did not seem nearly so interested. Bilbo wondered if perhaps the entire company was listening in and only coming out when their fool mouths betrayed them into blurting out a question or comment. She sighed.

“Well, are there any more of you, then? You might as well come make yourselves comfortable, you know!” the Hobbit huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’d like to see who’s interrupting before it happens.”

Bombur emerged from somewhere to the left, twisting his fingers shyly and as red as a beet. Bofur followed with a guilty smile. And though she almost missed it, Bilbo saw Nori appear suddenly from a shadowy alcove, and press in on Dwalin’s right. Bilbo began to tick the Dwarves off on her fingers; Fíli, Kíli, Ori, Nori, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Óin, Glóin, Dwalin… There were three missing. Dori, Balin, and Thorin. But though she waited another few seconds, that appeared to be the last of the hidden Dwarves.

“Anyway,” the Hobbit sighed. “When he woke up the next morning, one of the tree’s roots had curled around Bungo’s foot, and he couldn’t get free. No matter how hard he tugged, the tree just squeezed tighter!”

Bilbo paused for suspense, feeling flushed and proud. Ori’s quill was all but flying over the page, and Bilbo wondered if perhaps there wouldn’t be splatters, the way he was going, barely pausing between each dip of the quill and the press of quill to page. Fíli’s eyes, so sharp already, had narrowed to focused intensity – as though by will alone, he could prompt the characters of her story to overcome their problems. Bifur had pulled a bit of wood from nowhere and started whittling. Bilbo couldn’t quite make out what it would become, but by the rounded shape and the large base she wondered if maybe it would be a Hobbit.

“He spent an hour or more struggling with it,” Bilbo told them at last. “Well, finally it got past time for second breakfast, and he reached for what food was left in his pack. That’s when he saw it – the walking-stick.”

An almost-silent chuckle broke the air. Until she noticed Dwalin’s half-annoyed glance at Nori, she wasn’t sure where it’d come from. But the Dwarf, who she’d learned from Dwalin’s grumbling throughout the journey so far was something of a scoundrel infamous in Ered Luin, just offered a sweet, dangerous smile.

“For all that he was a gentlehobbit, very well-to-do and not much responsible for laboring work,” continued Bilbo, “Bungo was quite strong. He managed to wedge it in between the root and his foot, and lever himself out. It cost him the walking-stick, though, which snapped despite being very reliable and well-crafted. But he was determined, and he continued on, carrying his bundle in his arms.”

She paused again, though less to build suspense and more to catch her breath and decide what to tell next. Bilbo had heard the story told two ways, sometimes simultaneously, as even Bungo Baggins’ propriety faded a little when it came to his one adventure. In the end, she decided to leave the fate of their hero hang in the air a bit, and switch back to the heroine of the tale.

“In the meantime, my mother had gone up to the Baggins home to pay Bungo a visit. But no one had seen him since the day before the last, when he’d said he was off to Buckland. That gave her a bad Feeling all over – Belladonna and her sisters having been rather gifted with premonitions – so she headed right off after him.”

Óin nodded sagely, pulling out a pipe and beginning to smoke. As Bilbo glanced around at her audience, she noticed a few more had pulled out pipes as well – Bofur, Fíli, and Gloín. Nori had a pipe in his hands, fiddling with it, but Bilbo was fairly sure she’d seen Dori using it the eve before. Though perhaps the brothers only had the one to share between them, after all. It wasn’t really her business, and Dori had seemed more than capable of wrangling Nori the night before. Bilbo put the thoughts from her mind, fiddled with her necklace, and carried on.

“Of course the Bucklanders all knew Belladonna was absolutely mad for Bungo – they’re notorious meddlers, the lot of them,” Bilbo explained with a wry smirk. “And they told her where he’d gone. And she was worried for him, being gone into the Old Forest two days with so little to eat and not being the sort accustomed to adventures. So she started in after him with not much more than he’d had, excepting a big kitchen knife from Lily Brandybuck and a Bounder’s warning-whistle.”

The skritch-scratching of Ori’s quill stopped abruptly.

“What’s a Bounder?” asked the young Dwarf, before immediately looking a bit ashamed of having burst in on the story.

“Oh, well, that’s… They watch over the bounds of the Shire, is all,” Bilbo answered him with a shrug. “Keep watch over who comes and goes. I’m surprised none of you met one on your way to Hobbiton.”

Bofur snorted, then burst out in laughter, clutching his gut. As he bent over his lap, he had to press a hand to his hat as well to stop it from falling off.

“Oh, aye, I wager we met a few o’ them, didn’t we Bombur!”

The larger Dwarf’s face had gone bright red, and he curled in on himself a bit. And didn’t that make Bilbo curious, but she – like her father before her – was a gentlehobbit and didn’t pry or gossip, no matter that prying and gossiping seemed to be the most common of Hobbit pastimes besides farming, eating, drinking, and smoking. Bombur appeared thoroughly embarrassed enough, having all the attention turned on him. But she did make a point to remember to ask Bofur to elaborate later, if he would. Never let it be said that Bilbo Baggins passed up a good story.

It was Fíli who finally shoved Bofur to try and get him to stop laughing. Bifur thumped his cousin on the back of the head as well, before snapping out a hurried phrase in Khuzdul. It was getting easier to recognize the language, but Bilbo still had no idea what was being said. And it would be rude to ask, being that Dwarves were so secretive about their language, or so she’d heard from the Mayor.

She cleared her throat a little, reinstating order despite how little heed any of the Company had paid her in Bag End, and smiled a bit.

“So, in she went, but she wasn’t far before she was met by a tall, odd fellow. Well, I say tall, only he was about the height of a Dwarf,” Bilbo amended. “Tall to a Hobbit, really, with a dark, wrinkled face and a brown beard. He was even stranger than the Old Forest itself, putting off some kind of magic that made the hair on her feet stand on end. But he was pleasant and smiling, and he sang and whistled as he approached, wearing a bright blue jacket and yellow boots and a feather in his cap. My mother, not much afraid of anything then, introduced herself with all her good manners as her own mother had taught her, and he did the same. His name was Tom Bombadil, by Hobbit reckoning – which he liked – and it was very lucky she’d come across him though she didn’t know it at the time. For he was one of the wild spirits, and very likely the only friendly one in those parts. He’s always had a way with the holding back the darker parts of the land thereabouts, so people say.”

Ori was still writing, but Bofur had paused in the middle of a puff of his pipe. Then he, Bifur, and Bombur shared a look that none of the other Dwarves seemed to understand.

“Forn,” Bombur said aloud, quiet.

But even then none of the others appeared to get the meaning that those three had gathered. Bofur frowned a bit.

“Well, maybe the rest don’t know much about it, seeing it’s an obscure sorta thing, and specifically a Blue Mountain legend besides. Bombur, Bifur, and me, we’re the only ones from real Blue Mountain stock after all, the rest being from Erebor, leastways by family. Anyways, there’s a fellow fitting that description in our lore too,” he explained, tugging on one of his large braids. “Forn, we call him. They say he’s been old for as long as there’s been mountains and trees on the earth, and stars in the sky. Even the Elves haven’t lived as long as him.”

Nori, who seemed to have finally decided _not_ to smoke and had tucked Dori’s pipe away, nodded.

“I’ve heard it too,” he agreed. “From superstitious guards. They say he’s friendly enough, but too magic for the likes of us.”

Bilbo made a noise of agreement, nodding.

“That’s a lot like what my mother and the Bucklanders always said of him,” she mused. “You can tell he’s trustworthy, if a bit otherworldly. And so she asked him if he’d seen Bungo. He hadn’t, but being something of a gentleman, if a rather queer one, he agreed to accompany her to look for him. In the meanwhile, Bungo had managed to, at last, find his way to the Withywindle. Its water is cool and clear and pretty, but the current is fast and the bank is steep. And there are plants that grow up from the riverbed that can catch an ankle and pull you under. But there, growing right near the edge, were the belladonna plants. All he needed to do was grab a few blossoms and find his way home. Scared as he was, Bungo had managed up to that point to keep his path marked with stones he found in the forest the whole way from Buckland, or so he thought. So he snatched up some of the belladonna blossoms at the riverbank and hurried away. But his path was nowhere to be found. The trees had shuffled around, you see.”

Dwalin interrupted with a string of curses upon trees, moving or otherwise, and the folk that lived beneath them. Ori, a prim little scowl on his face that would do any Baggins proud, twisted one of the older Dwarf’s ear cuffs sharply. Dwalin seemed as surprised at it as anyone else, and afterwards – even as the scribe went back to his writing – he looked at Ori as though he’d not quite seen him before. Bilbo smiled and ducked her head a bit to hide it.

“Eventually by sheer stubbornness, Bungo made it out of the Old Forest, but not in the direction he intended. Belladonna kept searching all that day with Tom, and just as dusk was nearing they found him out on the Barrow Downs,” Bilbo concluded.

“Did he make it?” Kíli asked, all but a whisper.

“You dim—Of _course_ he made it, or Bilbo wouldn’t’ve been born!” Nori snapped.

This comment, rather a bit more rude than Bilbo was used to from her listeners – though she was used mostly to awed fauntlings – set off a squabble that lasted several minutes. The Hobbit couldn’t keep track of who was on whose side for more than a few seconds as the fight shifted, only that direct family ties were never broken. Finally, Glóin and Óin clonked a few heads together and quieted the rest down.

“May I?” Bilbo asked, torn between resignation and amusement.

“Get on with it. Sounds about finished up anyway,” answered Dwalin, who was calmly holding Bofur in a headlock while the other Dwarf flailed his arms.

“Alright then,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Well, there was a Barrow Wight over him, leaning down. Big and twisted, with a curved back and a face like a skull. If you can believe it, my mother brandished her kitchen knife right at it! But it was Tom who got it to go, all but waving his hand and ordering it off, like it was some fauntling to be scolded rather than a Barrow Wight! And they carried him back to Tom Bombadil’s home in the Old Forest, and his wife Goldberry took such good care of them all that Bungo woke by the next morning feeling much better, as though he had spent the past few days at a nice inn rather than the Old Forest and the Barrow Downs. And for all his trouble, he’d managed to keep hold of the flowers he picked!”

“At least he did something right, then,” Glóin grumbled, scowling. “Going into a forest – unarmed! Hah!”

Bilbo, having finally fallen into the cadence of storytelling to Dwarves – that is, to be prepared for numerous interruptions every time one stopped to so much as breathe – just laughed.

“Bungo was absolutely mortified, of course, having been caught doing something so utterly reckless and having failed at it so miserably. He was sure she would never accept his suit after that. But she just laughed at him, and said ‘Bungo Baggins, you ridiculous Hobbit, of course I’d have you! I’d never have anyone else!’” Bilbo elaborated, wagging her finger, “and that was that. My father fashioned my mother’s ring with the belladonna, and my mother made his with lily of the valley – for sweetness, humility, the return of happiness, and luck in love. As a wedding gift, he built her Bag End with his own two hands – and lots of help from the miller, who was a dab hand at carpentry.”

Kíli cooed a bit over that, smiling, and Ori finished writing with a pleased flourish.

“That’s sweet, that is,” Bofur piped up, extricating himself from Dwalin’s hold.

“I didn’t know Hobbits had meanings for flowers,” Glóin added.

Bilbo blinked.

“What, do Dwarves not…?”

“We’ve got meanings for _gemstones_ ,” Fíli explained, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “But not _flowers_.”

“Not much use for flowers in a mountain,” said Óin. “Except to make salves and other healing items.”

Well, Bilbo had to concede, that did make sense. And also made her wonder just what different gemstones might mean. Still, though the story was over, there was one little… Little epilogue, the Hobbit thought, before it could be well and truly complete. Satisfactory, that is. Every good tale needed a rounded happy ending to finish it off.

“Well, flowers are rather more abundant than gemstones in the Shire, I’m afraid. In… In any case, after her marriage my mother never went on a-a proper adventure again,” Bilbo said quietly, with a small smile as she tried to ignore the hitch in her voice because she was well into her middle age and she’d done her grieving already, “so much as any adventure can be called proper. But her spirit never went out. Folks round the Shire always said he tamed her ways, or her love for my father made her less wild, but it’s not true. Each and every year, they set aside a day to go walking as far as they could reach, in any direction, and then when night fell they’d camp out among the stars. And my father would promise her each and every one in the sky, if she asked, but she never did.”

Bilbo found herself looking up at the late morning sky and blinking rapidly, unable to meet the eyes of her companions. There was a long silence. At last, the Hobbit clapped her hands sharply, laughed in a similar manner, and stepped away from the wall she was leaning against.

“The end,” she declared.

 

**“Well. That was educational.”**

**Thorin’s jaw tenses in an attempt to keep herself quiet – to not give Balin the pleasure of seeing her startled – and she exhales forcefully through the nose. After a few seconds, she opens her eyes, which had been closed, and looks down at the older Dwarf.**

**“I suppose,” Thorin answers at last, carefully tucking her arms behind her back into a calm, regal pose.**

**It is a posture she’d stolen from Thráin long ago, but neither of them mention it, and it’s just as well they don’t. Instead, they look out at the path before the gardens, at a gathering of ten Dwarrows and a Hobbit, who look like a true Company in a way that makes Thorin’s heart ache a little, makes her want to breathe and laugh and be alive again, even though that still seems so far beyond her reach.**

**Balin pats her arm, a common move of comfort but not pity. Balin, with her white hair and soft smile and powerful words, has known Thorin long enough not to pity her. Or at least not any more than Balin pities all of them, for what has been done to their people and their way of life.**

**“I for one do not think you have been remiss in accepting Miss Baggins along,” Balin concludes with a firm nod, as though finishing out some argument they’d had previously.**

**“We shall see,” says Thorin, watching her Company drift away in groups that are relaxed but not off-guard. “I do not want her blood on my hands.”**

**Balin sighs softly.**

**“I know.”**

**Soon only the Halfling and Bifur are left. Bifur signs an elaborate thanks in Iglishmêk that there is no way the Hobbit can interpret. But then she hands over a small carving, which Miss Baggins tucks into her waistcoat pocket, and that seems to express the sentiment well enough. It is only after that that the two part ways, Bifur wandering back into the garden and the burglar striding quickly in Thorin and Balin’s direction.**

**Thorin turns to nudge Balin so that they aren’t found, but she is already gone. First to snoop and first to take a cue to leave. The meddling—**

**When Thorin faces forward again, there is a Halfling a fingers-breadth from her chest and her hands twitch back in surprise.**

 

Bilbo blinked, registering the familiar fur and blue tunic before her nose. Then she tipped her head up just slightly to meet equally blue eyes. Really, why did this always seem to happen to her?

“Thorin?”

His mouth was set, and his eyes kept flicking to her and then away. Bilbo wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. But it was a lot easier to study his expression when he wasn’t staring her down, at least, with that ridiculously intense look in his eyes. The Dwarf king cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“I believe it is time for lunch,” he told her at last, stiffly.

Bilbo had the oddest feeling he wanted to say more, but he didn’t and anyway it wasn’t her place to prod him into explaining herself. Not to mention, it rather was time for another meal since, like Dwarves, Elves did not seem to know that the proper number of meals to have in a day was seven, not two or three – she was famished. So instead of pressing Thorin for whatever his problem was, she just followed after him down the walkways of Rivendell until they reached the dining hall.

Bilbo smiled to find it was already rather loud with the sounds of Dwarfish merriment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I know, no natural tree resin can harden as fast as I imply whatever the Hobbits use does, but look they're basically magical gardeners in a magical world, so hopefully you'll just bear with me on that.
> 
> As a final note: if you're worried about Dori, please don't be, you'll find out what she's been up to in the next chapter.


	11. Synchronization is the Name of the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dwarves find themselves dealing with some lady problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically I wrote the dialogue between Bofur and the girls before anything else and this turned into a chapter about Dwarf-lady menstruation. So if that makes you uncomfortable, be warned. If not, settle in, I had lots of fun writing this and we're spending most of our time in the POV of various Dwarves -- very little Bilbo in this chapter.
> 
> Additionally, you'll note I use "two months" as the average cycle length -- this is just my own personal headcanon, but since Tolkien's Dwarves seem to be so terribly infertile, I thought perhaps the ladies don't menstruate as often.

Dori was practical. Dori was organized.

Dori was not embarrassed to march right up to Lord Elrond and demand to know if there was any ginger root suitable for tea to be had, and to tell him that if so their Company would be needing a very great deal of it come evening.

The Elf Lord blinked several times, looking a bit overwhelmed, but at last nodded his head.

“Yes, of course. Would you rather the tea be brewed for you, or…?”

“No need,” Dori insisted primly, waving the suggestion away. “I can manage well enough, thank you, Lord Elrond.”

And with that settled, she turned and left to make other preparations. Considering how dear Ori got, tea – no matter how soothing or effective – would simply not be enough. Additionally, Nori was the secretive, lashing-out sort, and it wouldn’t do for her to clash with any of the more, ah… Gentry-level members of their company, in such a state.

Rags, of course, would be a must. And warm water to wash them out in. And cool water to soak cloths in, because a cool cloth was always good for pressing to Ori’s head or Nori’s belly or the small of her own back. It had been years, actually since she’d dealt with Nori’s cycles, but that didn’t mean she still wouldn’t do it now she had the opportunity. Mahal knew Nori likely didn’t take care of herself properly whenever she was gallivanting off to who-knew-where – always one who would rather muscle through the pain than soothe it, that one.

Dori folded her hands and let out a crisp sigh.

It was sometimes _such trouble_ being the responsible one.

 

When Bilbo and Thorin stepped into the dining hall, all the rest of their Company was there – except Bifur, who was probably still in the gardens. Bilbo hoped he would eventually return to get something to eat – especially since he seemed to be the only one of the Dwarves who appreciated any of the fruits and vegetables provided by their hosts.

Although. Looking at the table, it seemed that perhaps Lord Elrond had been playing something of a joke, for there was finally meat to be had, after a few days without. Not the rich, heavy pork or beef the Dwarves favored, but lighter game – pheasants, some fish. That at least had Dwalin’s brow less furrowed, and Bilbo was glad for him – even if watching him panic over the Elves’ previous fare had been, well, a little amusing.

And even if it wasn’t very _nice_ of her, she allowed herself a mean thought now and again after the Man in the Moon debacle.

“Bilbo! Over here!”

Bofur waved from one of the far tables, a wide grin on his face. Then he gestured to a small square of bench, left open for her. On the other side was Ori, who began waving her over too. He was eating rather messily, though careful to have his journal tucked to his side and away from the food. Dori, sitting across the table, did not seem pleased by his brother’s lack of table manners, but it was Nori that occasionally dipped in with a napkin to wipe a smudge from Ori’s clothes as he all but danced between tables, nabbing food off others’ plates – with Dwalin as a particular victim.

Bilbo found herself smiling like a loon as she watched them all. Yes, she was becoming rather fond of Dwarves. It was only after an eager step forward that Bilbo jolted to a stop and glanced back at Thorin. She wasn’t sure quite why, maybe because they had walked together and it felt a bit rude to abandon him – there was only one open seat at that table, after all.

Thorin, who had been watching her, just quirked an eyebrow before settling between Bombur and Balin at the other table. And Bilbo was sure, just sure, she hadn’t seen amusement glittering in his eyes – really. And even if there had been, it wasn’t as though it warranted her heart doing a tight little hop in her chest. Dwalin, who was sitting directly across from Thorin, began a gruff and longwinded rant to his king – about Nori stealing from his plate – around a mouthful of pheasant.

“Oh, good,” said Óin, probably a bit louder than he intended. “I was worried Thorin would get lost. Again.”

Bilbo hurriedly plopped down between Bofur and Ori, hiding a snort of laughter in the cup of wine waiting for her. It turned into a cough, much to her embarrassment, and Ori had to thump her on the back a few times – rather stronger than she had expected – before her breathing settled again.

“Thank you,” the Hobbit wheezed, flushed pink.

Finally, she settled in to lunch, which was really quite delicious, and filling, and – best of all – without food fights. Still, despite the distraction of delicious eating, she found herself suddenly thinking about gemstones – which was actually rather strange for a Hobbit, as they didn’t tend to hold to such things. Valuable monetarily, she supposed, but really, what was one shiny rock over another?

It was Glóin, surprisingly, who noticed. He had reached around his brother for a pastry when he caught Bilbo prodding at a piece of lettuce with her fork.

“Something on your mind, lass?” demanded the Dwarf.

Bilbo blinked.

“Oh! No, I… I was just,” she fidgeted before setting her fork down with a rather unladylike clack. “About what Fíli said, before, about gemstones…?”

The redhead’s eyes narrowed.

“Aye. What of it?”

“Oh! I… Is it secret?” Bilbo asked, shifting uncomfortably.

Far be it from her to pry, especially considering how closely guarded Dwarves were about things. Perhaps asking about gemstones was like asking a Hobbit for family recipes. She shuddered at the thought – _that_ was no small faux pas.

“Not as such,” Bofur chipped in before Glóin could say anything. “But not much use unless you’re planning on courting a Dwarf!”

Then he winked and nudged Bilbo’s shoulder in a way that made her want to bury her face in her hands. No, of _course_ she didn’t want to court a Dwarf! The very thought was ridiculous.

Sure, Thorin was very good-looking, but—

No. Nope. That was clearly not something to think about. He was a good leader, and he was a good king – as far as she could tell, being a Hobbit and all – but that was it. Thorin was entirely too rude, and entirely too… Well… Too unreal, honestly.

Much too unreal.

She could feel her cheeks burning like a bonfire as she went back to her food.

 

Ori was endlessly grateful to finally have meat at a meal. In fact, she might have started crying if Nori wouldn’t have teased her for it. And speaking of which, she still was rather cross with her sister about that smack with the towel! But, then again, it was so hard to stay mad at Nori when she was actually _around_ for more than a day…

Anyway, Ori didn’t think she could have survived another meal with just small pastries and leaves to eat. Green food made her think of mold.

When she finally leaned back from the table, Ori felt completely satisfied.

“Oh, Bilbo!” she exclaimed suddenly, having only just remembered. “Fíli and Kíli are going to spar with Captain Dwalin this afternoon, would you like to come watch with me? _Dori_ won’t let me join in, but…”

Before the Hobbit could get out an answer, Dori was tutting from across the table.

“You know _perfectly well_ why I’m not letting you spar with them!” she insisted, twisting her napkin so sharply that it almost ripped. “You’re not well-trained enough for that! You’d only get hurt!”

Dori continued to list reasons – embarrassing ones, Ori didn’t want everyone in the Company to overhear how inexperienced a fighter she was even if it _was_ true – but then Nori paused behind her and began mocking her motions and expressions. After that Ori was a little too busy biting her lip to keep from laughing to be annoyed at how stifling Dori was being.

Bofur had no such qualms about keeping quiet. She laughed so hard she toppled off the bench, and only then did Dori whip around to look behind her. Unfortunately for Nori, who was summarily dragged off back to their room by the ear, Dori caught her in the middle of an exaggerated scandalized-court-lady pose.

“Um. Well. Yes, I’ll come along with you, I suppose,” Bilbo stammered, looking a bit dazed at the whirlwind that was the ‘Ri sisters’ family dynamic. “If the others don’t mind?”

“We don’t mind!” Kíli shouted from the other table, nudging her sister. “Do we Fíli?”

“Nah! Maybe you’ll learn something!” the prince added with a charming grin.

“From you two? Not likely,” Dwalin grunted, then downed the rest of her glass of wine with a sour expression at the aftertaste. “Alright. Let’s get going.”

Dutifully, they all trooped out after her to an empty ring for sparring that Bifur had noticed the day before. And though she’d never admit it – especially to Dori, who would just say she was learning from Nori’s bad influence – Ori stuck very very close to Dwalin, the better to watch her sturdy, warrior gait.

Finally they reached their destination. Ori tugged Bilbo with her off to the side, where they sat on a short stone wall to watch. Then she flipped open her journal and dug around in her pockets until she found a stick of charcoal.

In the ring, Dwalin hit her fists together, and her knuckle-dusters gave off a loud, confident clang. Ori had to bite her bottom lip to stifle a smile, and wondered briefly if the skin might break after so much abuse throughout the day so far.

“Alright, you whelps. What’ll it be?” the captain demanded with a half-feral grin. “Weapons or no?”

Kíli glanced at Fíli. Fíli glanced at Kíli. They both looked back at Dwalin’s thick arms.

“I vote weapons.”

“Agreed.”

Kíli drew her sword, Fíli drew her blades, and Dwalin calmly contemplated between her axes and her war hammer. Only when the prince and princess rushed her, looking to gain any advantage they could, did Dwalin spin on her heel and decide. Fluidly, she pulled out Grasper and Keeper from their holsters, reaching over her shoulders in an x formation and pulling them out the wrong way – with the axe head aimed behind her. Then she knocked Fíli and Kíli back with the hafts in one sweeping movement. Both siblings fell flat on their backs.

“Well. That was pathetic,” Dwalin commented, flipping her axes back to the natural grip.

Kíli, roused by the insult, hopped back to her feet and charged again, with a battle cry. Dwalin blocked her first strike, but the princess used her smaller frame to duck around and avoid being swept onto her backside again. Then, as the guard captain turned to make sure Kíli could not stay at her back, Fíli tackled her, tossing both arms around her neck in a chokehold.

Dwalin did struggle with that, twisting this way and that to make sure that Kíli didn’t slip into a blind spot. She had to drop an axe as she wrestled with Fíli’s grip and loosely-held swords. In the end, she grabbed onto the prince’s lean arms, then threw herself forward, using the momentum to flip Fíli over her tattooed head and onto the dirt in front of her.

Over and over the prince and princess tried to wear Dwalin down, but she continued to toss them aside with the easy confidence of one who has known true battles. Every roll of her big shoulders, every shift of stance, had Ori’s hand flying over the pages of her journal, switching between etching vague stances and trying to capture the impossible detail of the guard’s face.

“Um, Ori?”

It was only at Bilbo’s meek interruption that Ori realized that she’d been biting the end of her thumb as she sketched – and that in doing so she’d smeared charcoal all over her mouth. Ori groaned, wanting to bury her face in her hands in embarrassment, but knowing it would only end up smudging the rest of her face.

At least Nori wasn’t there to tease her about daydreaming. Especially over Dwalin, of all people. Nori was _always_ asking Dori about her after Lord Balin’s visits for tea, as if she _knew_ – and Ori wouldn’t have put it past her either. She didn’t know if it was some sort of older-sister power, but Nori always knew _everything_ , even when Ori tried to keep it a secret.

In the end, she had to leave to clean herself off or she just _knew_ one of her sisters would go flipping through her journal like unwanted guests. And that simply wouldn’t do. Thankfully, Bilbo was nice enough to accompany her to a little stream where she scrubbed away most of the charcoal. Then they meandered back to the others in time for an evening meal and a little bit of storytelling.

 

As the rest of the Company sat about the fire drinking and making merry, Balin accepted containers of ginger root from an Elf at the door, a bit bemused. Who, she wondered, had ordered it to their wing? And yet it did remind her of something. Namely that it was getting to be about that time… She double-checked the small, round, slotted stone she kept up her sleeve as a calendar and nodded. Yes, it had been nearly two months. And if someone else were preparing – certainly not Dwalin – it was likely their cycles would _all_ be syncing up, having been around one another for most of the planning and the journey itself.

With a sigh, Balin set the ginger root aside and prepared for sleep. Better to get in rest while she could, before any sort of uncomfortable symptoms started rearing their ugly heads. She might not be the youngest Dwarf on their journey, but she certainly wasn’t done with her cycles by any means.

 

That night Bilbo curled up on her assigned bedroll, sandwiched between Óin and Dori. It wasn’t the most comfortable of nights, considering Óin had a tendency to scold patients in his sleep. Or, at least, that was what Bilbo assumed he was doing – it was hard to tell, because the words were all in clipped, indecipherable Khuzdul, no Westron to speak of. And Dori, on Bilbo’s right, had gripped Bilbo’s sleeve in his hand before settling in for the night, and would not let go.

His other arm was stretched above him in what Bilbo was sure had to be an incredibly uncomfortable pose, with his fingers fisted around the cuff of Nori’s trouser-leg. What Nori had done was likely his own fault, Bilbo surmised, but her predicament could be blamed entirely on Balin and Dwalin. They had been the ones to suggest to Dori that it would be good if someone kept a closer watch on their burglar at night.

Which was utterly ridiculous, because Glóin was already _on_ watch, and surely he would see if she tried to sneak off to one of the – tempting, soft, luxurious – beds scattered throughout the wing of the building.

Muffling her annoyed sigh into her bedroll as best she could, Bilbo resigned herself to sleeping with one arm bent uncomfortably in Dori’s unbreakable grip.

 

Bilbo only realized she must have fallen asleep when she woke up. Pale morning light was streaming in from the balcony, and the Hobbit found that she could move her arm. It ached a bit from being in the same position all night, but it was nothing a good stretch couldn’t fix.

Dori was already up, bustling about with something in the corner, which explained why Bilbo’s sleeve was free of his grasp. She snuck off to get herself some breakfast before he’d turned back around. It was really poor manners of her, but she was incredibly hungry and had very little doubt that if the Dwarves had teamed up and agreed she needed to be held onto so she didn’t go wandering off at night, they would have no qualms about making her wait for some sort of entourage to get a meal.

And if perhaps she headed straight off to watch the waterfalls and confide in her parents’ marriage bands, it was no fault of her own if she needed a bit of alone time, was it? There was only so far she could go, and the Dwarves really had to get over their unease. Why not take the chance to relax while they had it? It certainly didn’t seem as if they’d likely be getting such chances during the rest of their journey.

 

**When Thorin wakes, the Hobbit is gone.**

**The Hobbit is gone and no one knows _where to_.**

**Thorin does not _panic_ because kings do not panic. Instead, she very _calmly_ and _rationally_ orders the rest of the Company to go searching for the Hobbit. Now.**

**“The wee lass is probably just eating, Thorin,” says Dwalin, gripping her shoulder with a comforting strength. “You saw how she tucked in at supper last night. She can eat more than Bombur, I wager.”**

**Thorin pounds that suggestion in as a cornerstone for her reeling mind – reeling, not panicking, though she does feel a bit ill. She nods. But Dwalin, unerring even though she is utterly devoid of tact, still marches off with a hand on her axes to search the Halfling out.**

**Only then does Thorin relax enough to realize that something in her body has shifted.**

**“Of all the times—”**

**“Thorin.”**

**Balin’s voice is gentle and grounding. As usual. The white-haired Dwarf holds out a clean rag, folded several times over. Thorin accepts it gladly. That was one good thing about trousers – though she had no real preference between them and skirts – they made it easier to keep the mess of blood-cycles to a minimum, with cloth so close to the pelvis to support rags. At least she’ll have some alleviation of discomfort – or rather future embarrassment – while she doesn’t panic.**

 

Fíli generally prided herself on being able to keep track of a great amount of information. Only, it was just that she’d been so busy, with packing for the quest and navigating the Shire and fighting trolls and running from Orcs—

Well, you get the idea.

Point being, she and Kíli had only just returned from their – rather fruitless – search for Bilbo, when suddenly Fíli was doubled over in pain, on the one bench that hadn’t been turned into kindling in their communal room. Looking over at Kíli, she could see that her younger sister was squirming, crossing her legs uncomfortably. The two of them locked eyes and nodded, grimaces on their faces, both having just realized how poorly they’d been keeping track of the days.

“Thorin!”

 

Thankfully for all of them, Dori’d had the foresight to gather supplies. Fíli sent up a prayer of thanks to the Maker for ginger tea and cool cloths. And Dori. Thank Mahal for Dori, who could make passing a blood-cycle in Elf lands bearable.

But after a while even ginger tea didn’t help. Fíli wasn’t sure if it was just being young Dwarrows that made the pain so much worse, or if it was something else. After all, Thorin took off several days a cycle every time…

And trying to ramble in her thoughts was really not helping. In fact, it only exacerbated the prince’s nausea. In the end, she and Kíli ended up lying on the cool floor of the room, curled up in fetal positions and groaning, completely oblivious to the world around them.

And then of course, almost an hour into their misery, Bofur had to skip up all sunshine and goldstone.

“You too, eh? That makes all of us, then!” the miner said cheerfully, adjusting her jaunty hat.

“What’re you so… happy about?” grunted Kíli with a scowl. “This is _awful_.”

“Well, at least it’s happening here and not in the Misty Mountains,” Bofur offered, shrugging.

Fíli and Kíli just groaned.

“Be useful for once and go get us Óin,” the blonde prince whined, hands pressed to her belly.

Bofur nodded, tugged off her hat and held it out for Kíli to twist between her hands, and skipped off.

“Curse her,” the princess muttered as she tugged on Bofur’s hat. “How come it doesn’t hurt _her_ so much…?”

Fíli shook her head, inadvertently flinging sweat from her brow.

“Miners are terrifying.”

 

Óin was, given some time, able to scrounge up some sort of herbal concoction that put the prince and princess right to sleep. There was still a dull, throbbing ache in Fíli’s lower belly as she drifted off, but at least she’d be too unconscious to actually care about it anymore.

 

**Thorin grits her teeth against the pain surging through her and assures herself firmly that she’s had worse. As usual, it doesn’t help. Not that much really _did_. Her only consolation was that no matter how nonchalant the others acted, they were suffering just as much as she was – well, except for Bofur. For some reason, _she_ appeared perfectly content, no discomfort to speak of except the annoyance of having to wash her blood from the rags every so often.**

**But of all the places for Thorin to find herself – and her Company – vulnerable… It had to be Elves. Of course it did. And the Halfling had to wander off alone in the middle of it all. The Dwarf king isn’t sure what to do with the worry spinning in her gut, since it only adds to the nausea. She has a sudden and intense desire to have the Hobbit with her, close enough to reach, close enough for Thorin to protect with her own arms.**

**The wizard knows and does not know the burden he has placed on her, putting such a small, fussy, innocent creature in the care of a Dwarf who had lost everything that had ever been fussy and innocent about herself long ago. It takes all of the meager hope Thorin has left to make her mind chug onward to Erebor, flying over mountains and rivers and forests to that ancient peak. She has very little left to spare for the Halfling’s survival.**

**Especially now that Thorin knows they – or more accurately she, if the bounty missive in Black Speech that the wizard had presented to her so long ago had anything to do with it – are being hunted.**

**Squeezing her eyes shut tightly, Thorin rests her arms on her knees and her head on her arms.**

 

As she stepped into the room, Bilbo’s eyes flicked about in an instinctive headcount. Clearly the Dwarves _were_ rubbing off on her. There was no reason to be worried about any of them, Rivendell was very safe, and they had Gandalf as well, but still. After all, maybe it was the Elves that needed protection, considering the ridiculous and destructive shenanigans Dwarves could get up to. Either reason was a good enough defense, she supposed.

Thorin’s expression was deep and brooding as he sat with his arms resting on his knees. Óin was ladling something out of a large pot in the center of the room. Fíli and Kíli were curled up on top of each other like pups. Dori was drinking tea, looking mostly normal, but every so often he would press a hand to the small of his back and grumble something under his breath. Bifur sat in the corner of the room, gnawing agitatedly on the hard, reedy stem of some plant that grew near the waterfalls. Every so often his free hand would burst into a flurry of the signs he seemed to use instead of Khuzdul sometimes. Bofur, by contrast, had his arms folded behind his head and his ankles crossed contentedly, shifting to – Bilbo assumed – answer back in kind whenever his cousin said something with hand-signs. Nori was crouched on the railing again, but looking more uncomfortable than ever, eyes narrowed to slits. Balin was wringing out some sort of rag in a bucket off to the side. Ori had a cloth pressed to his head as he jotted something down in his journal. Dwalin, in his usual place next to Thorin, seemed to be carving a design into a stone. Bombur and Glóin were nowhere to be found.

Bilbo blinked, and wondered if perhaps something bad had happened in her brief absence. Everyone looked a bit peaky. Perhaps breakfast had not sat so well with them?

“I doubt this lot will make good company,” Óin said sharply when he noticed Bilbo standing in the doorway. “Best you scamper along. Go find Bombur and my idiot brother, our illustrious king doesn’t trust these pointy-eared bastards not to cart you off.”

Bilbo opened her mouth to offer to help, but was met with a flat, unyielding glance.

“Where might I find them?” she relented.

Óin stared blankly for a few seconds, and Bilbo realized with a start that the Dwarf was not using his ear trumpet, as his hands were full. She opened her mouth to repeat her question – louder and slower – but Óin waved an arm to cut her off.

“They’re down near the way we came in, looking at the river. Bombur suggested we try and catch some fish since our so-called hosts are not feeding us near well enough,” he answered.

With a nod, Bilbo turned on her heel and made for the river.

 

“You owe me one for that,” Óin said with a firm look in Thorin’s direction.

The king just scowled, leaning back to bash her head against the wall. Stubborn. But that was all part and parcel of Dwarfhood and the line of Durin, so the healer paid it no mind.

“I know you’re trying to hide it,” she all but scolded, unimpressed. “So just take a cup of the draught and go to sleep already. My brother will watch over the Halfling, and Bofur’s as fit as a fiddle; she’ll keep watch. Won’tcha, lass?”

Bofur nodded agreeably.

It was with a bearlike grimace on her face that Thorin accepted the offered cup and drained it before lying down in a tense arc around her nieces. Óin rolled her eyes. Well. She’d done her duty to king and kin by protecting Thorin’s pride and not letting the Hobbit see her in such a weakened state, so that was that.

“Tea?”

Óin looked up, and found Balin holding out a cup of the ginger tea Dori had had the good sense to brew up.

“Yes, thank you, cousin.”

 

Nori liked Bofur. She was funny and off-color, if not in quite the way Nori was used to, considering the sort of shady Dwarrows she normally hung around. There was a bright innocence to Bofur’s bawdy tavern songs and flirty leer that was simple and pleasant. Normal, she supposed, for a lower-class but honest Dwarf.

Didn’t mean it still didn’t rankle her to see the miner skipping about as usual while the rest of them were curled up like dwarflings or stretched out like invalids. But Nori was a smart enough Dwarf to know that learning Bofur’s secret was more productive than smashing her full in her grinning face – even if the latter was oh-so-tempting.

Painstakingly, Nori removed herself from her uncomfortable crouch atop the balcony railing, and approached Bofur as if she were doing absolutely anything but trying to get a word with her. Old habits die hard, after all.

“How’re you keeping the pain from affecting you?” she demanded at last, seated with her knees up and her forearms pressed tight to her belly.

The miner blinked.

“Well,” said Bofur, reaching under her hat to scratch the top of her head, “I’ve never had much trouble with it, myself, but when I do I’ve found it’s best to keep moving.”

Moving. Hm. There was a thought. After all, while it relieved the worst of her cramps for a while, sitting still only made things worse when she shifted at all to prevent her joints from going stiff. Of course, she’d need suitable motivation to convince her body to move, and _keep_ moving.

Nori’s eyes closed briefly as she pondered, and when she opened them they were locked on Dwalin. A slow, wicked smile spread over the thief’s lips. Motivation, was it? Well, who better for that?

But she’d have to execute her plan _very carefully_.

 

Forty-five minutes later, a whooping Dwarf thief was darting through the clean-paved paths and elegant buildings of Rivendell, followed by a much more sturdy guard who was brandishing twin axes and shouting the word “thief” at the top of her impressive lungs like it was a newly-instated expletive. Bofur was laughing uproariously from the balcony, hat clutched to her stomach as she doubled over.

“Well, I did not expect _that_!” the miner guffawed.

Balin just quirked a single white brow and leaned over the railing. She could, if she were being generous, call what she was doing ‘supervising’, but Balin generally had no qualms about being truthful, to herself in the very least – she was spectating.

It had been so long since Balin had seen her sister lose her temper in such a childish way. Of course it was easy to tell she hadn’t completely lost control of herself – there was a ramrod tension to Dwalin’s spine when she had well and truly hit berserker stage, and no petty theft of her belongings would bring that out in her. Balin had only seen it once, in fact, in passing – during Azanulbizar, through the brief flashes of armored bodies. The way Dwalin had truly moved like a bull might have – following in their father’s footsteps as usual, for Bull of Erebor was his most common epithet – flinging enemies from her path as fast as they could fill it.

But it wouldn’t do to dwell on unpleasant things like that. Especially when Balin was so intrigued by the situation at hand. Dwalin’s steps were light enough that she seemed to understand that she was part of a game, and had not taken the sort of mutinous offense she’d started out with when informed the Summer Thief would be joining their Company. But there was a set to her shoulders that spoke of anxiety. And every so often, Nori would hold some small thing aloft, where it glinted in the sun.

If it was what Balin _thought_ it was…

Well. It was a game. Regardless, Nori surely knew better than to try and actually steal something from a member of the Company. Dwalin would get their mother’s ear cuff back and she would settle down. That was the truth of it, and there was no use fretting.

Occasionally, Balin darted a glance over to Dori, who was pressing a hand to her lower back and scowling like a thunderstorm, her eyes flashing as they charted their younger sisters’ romp across the valley. Balin folded her arms behind herself and ambled over.

“They’ll be alright. Dwalin knows better than to act up,” Fundin’s eldest commented. “I imagine she just wants back whatever Nori’s taken.”

Dori, unexpectedly, gritted her teeth, letting out something that might have been a snarl.

“Oh, I’m sure. Nori ought to know _better_ than to do such unscrupulous— _Oh_! Lady Balin! Pardon me.”

Dori’s face colored prettily, and she clapped both hands to her mouth. Balin just smiled in return.

“Dwalin seems to be enjoying the chase well enough,” she commented. “There’s no call for alarm.”

Dori did not look at all like she believed that, but she also didn’t protest. Instead, she rubbed her lower back again, frowning. Óin had a cool cloth in Balin’s hand before she could think to signal for it subtly.

‘In return for the tea’ her cousin signed, then stomped off to bully Ori into resting her eyes.

Balin, pleased, offered the cloth to Dori.

“For your back,” she explained. “I know my mother’s used to trouble her terribly around this time.”

Although clearly reluctant, Dori did accept the cloth. She fingered it idly for a few moments before she seemed to gather the courage to take off her belt and press the cool cloth to her back, hiking up her layers of tunics. She gave a sigh of relief, and Balin mentally patted herself on the back. The two Dwarrows watched quietly until the chase reached its conclusion – with Dwalin, panting like an angry bull, sitting on Nori’s chest guard-style as she placed their mother’s ear cuff back on her right ear. The entertainment had at least alleviated some of her own physical discomfort, Balin thought, pleased. And hopefully the chase had done the same for Dwalin.

As the sun began to set over the valley, she surveyed Bilbo leading Glóin and Bombur back for the evening meal. Dwalin was hauling Nori to her feet with one broad hand engulfing the smaller Dwarf’s bicep. A quick glance backwards showed Thorin and the girls still out cold.

Balin smiled fondly to herself and filed away the memory. There would be cold, gloomy nights ahead on their journey where she would need it.


	12. On Overstaying One's Welcome Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company's time in Rivendell comes to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd meant to finally get to their leaving Rivendell altogether in this chapter, but I've reached over 5000 words still on the day before Elrond even reads the map. So. I've split the chapter in two so you all don't have to wait until I finish writing about the last day. I've had to try and force scenes to knit together when they didn't want to cooperate, so if it seems a bit disjointed, that's why.

The next few days were oddly quiet. Bilbo found herself ringed by bedrolls each night so she could not sneak off again, and while no one else seemed to want her around, she was escorted everywhere by Bofur, Bombur, and Glóin – altogether or individually. She had no idea what was going on, and it was utterly frustrating. What she wanted was either a moment to herself or to be surrounded by the entire Company in camaraderie – not put on some sort of… Of probation!

And though it was a little childish of her, she took to ignoring her guards, instead striking up pleasant conversations with any Elf they came across – inquiring about the daily running of Rivendell, the sorts of people who usually passed through. And though she’d not _seen_ him, she’d been told by those Elf twins – Elrond’s sons, in fact, it was a great shock to her – that there was a Glorfindel in residence, and that yes he was in fact _that_ Glorfindel.

“Oh, but he’s so _boring_ unless one riles him up, wouldn’t you say, Elladan?” one asked the other, looking remarkably pleased and incredibly foxlike.

“You are indeed correct, Elrohir.”

Bilbo suddenly felt a tad worried for the poor warrior – fighting in great battle was one thing, but that was altogether far removed from dealing with troublesome youths. In true Hobbit fashion, she wagged a finger at them both.

“You boys stay out of trouble, you hear me?” she demanded.

In response, they both stared at her, glanced back at each other, and went back to staring before they burst into peals of ringing laughter – which was both very beautiful and all the more irritating for being so.

“Yes, Mistress Baggins!” the one called Elrohir agreed jovially, bowing low enough that he saw eye-to-eye with her. “But only if you promise to stay out of the kitchens between meals! Your appetite is notorious, and my brother and I are often late to supper.”

Well! She had no idea how best to respond to _that_! So in fact she said nothing at all until the two stopped laughing, and, seeing her still there, offered her sweet smiles.

“Ah, to think you put up with us so patiently!” Elladan said with a fond note in his voice. “Father will be pleased, at least, that someone does, aside our muinthel.”

Bilbo blinked.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” she told them, attempting to bite her tongue and curb any impertinent and curious questions – nevermind how impertinent the twins had been to her, it was just good breeding really.

The two Elves glanced at one another with grimaces that clearly told Bilbo they had not known she understood Sindarin – and really she _was_ rather rusty, but family was important to Hobbits, especially the mapping of relations, so those words had always stayed with her. At last, the brothers nodded reluctantly. But then their gazes darted to Glóin and Bombur, her escorts for the day, and their faces cooled considerably into masks of Elvish beauty like a winter frost. They became more guarded, then, shifting closer to one another.

“Father doesn’t like outsiders to see her, or know of her if he can help it,” Elrohir admitted, still staring down the Dwarves. “Our family had an… Incident, with Orcs. Since then, he likes to keep her close. Safe.”

Bilbo bit her lip, worrying it between her teeth before she decided what to say. Clearly she’d been making some poor choices in her words lately.

“I’m sorry,” she led with. “I didn’t mean to bring up something so—”

The word she was looking for escaped her.

“It’s my own fault,” said Elladan rather gallantly. “In any case, my brother and I have a patrol to attend to, since the filthy Orcs seem to be pressing rather insistently at our borders with your arrival. Good day, Miss Hobbit!”

The two strode off with long, elegant steps, and Bilbo did not feel better.

 

She was finally able to beg off the Dwarves a few hours later by all but forcing her own company on Gandalf, who assured Glóin with an amused expression that the Hobbit would be quite safe with him.

“Honestly, I don’t understand them at all,” Bilbo muttered to the wizard as they wandered the sunlit halls of Rivendell.

He simply smiled, as usual, as though he knew something she did not. Bilbo had learned in her fifty years of life to not trust that smile because it seemed to her that Gandalf had more an inordinate amount of luck than anything.

“Oh, my dear Bilbo,” he told her, squeezing her shoulder. “I would say that their concern is a _very_ encouraging sign.”

“Well,” sighed the Hobbit, “you’ve known them longer than I. But I haven’t seen you at all since we got here. What in Arda have you been doing this week?”

Gandalf chuckled to himself, reaching out to brush a hand over the vine-like architecture to his right.

“ _I_ have been taking a well-deserved rest,” the wizard answered with a grin.

“As though you have not been thoroughly enjoying yourself on this miserable quest!” exclaimed Bilbo with a sharp laugh.

Gandalf offered a shrug and an amused smile in return. A soft breeze combed through Bilbo’s curls and she sighed. The meddling wizard was right about one thing; Rivendell was indeed restful. Everything about it put her at ease the way the smell of her mother’s cooking or her father’s pipeweed always had.

Which prompted her to the realization that she’d not thought to bring either his pipe or any of the Old Toby she’d continued to buy even after his passing. A shame. But better in that the pipe would more than likely have been lost or broken – after all, they had been attacked twice without even crossing over the Misty Mountains! Best that she not have anything too sentimental that she didn’t absolutely need.

“Have you seen Lord Elrond’s library yet?” Gandalf asked, breaking into Bilbo’s practical train of thought. “It is a rather extensive collection, one your mother was very fond of. And it’s grown since her last visit.”

Bilbo’s feet halted without her permission at the mention of books. Her heart had been aching after the shelves in Bag End, and the prospect of new and rare reading was something she ought to have considered but had not. She felt a bit frantic, as if she had been wasting valuable time – which, arguably, she had.

By the time Bilbo collected herself enough to ask Gandalf where she could find the library, she found herself standing in an empty corridor.

Blasted wizards and their meddling.

 

Bofur had, when not on Hobbit duty, been pressganged into helping Óin with their miserable Company. She didn’t mind the glares so much – she always got them from Bifur, and Bombur’s otherwise amiable wife, Bera. But that was just the fate for a lass with such forgiving cycles. Her mother had been much the same.

And anyway, it was _funny_ to see them all roused to anger. It meant they had something to focus on besides the pain – which was important for Thorin’s lasses especially. No one liked to see the young prince and princess hurt.

Ori either, but Dori’d not let anyone near her in two days, except Nori. Bofur, free from the debilitating distraction of pain, noticed how Dwalin kept sending worried glances over to the corner the ‘Ri sisters had huddled up in, though she never left Thorin’s side. Trust the big lug to be worried but too duty-bound to do anything about it!

Bofur was pleased it was getting much easier to read all the high-class Dwarrows in the Company. She was always able to understand Bombur and Bifur, but the Dwarrows of Erebor were a bit out of her range, to speak plain. Nori was the one who made the most sense to Bofur, even for how secretive she was. The rest, generally being more high-born and all – or acting like it, in Dori’s case – had puzzled her at first.

She was just about to go ask Dwalin if she wanted Bofur to check on the ’Ri family for her when Bombur and Glóin walked in the door – noticeably missing their burglar. Bofur crossed her arms over her chest.

“Come now, Bombur, it can’t be that hard to keep track of Bilbo!” she scolded.

Her brother bit his lip and looked away with a shrug.

“We didn’t… _Lose_ her,” Bombur insisted, tugging at his beard.

“She’s with the wizard,” Glóin added with a huff that showed what he thought of _that_. “He waved us aside like a couple of dwarflings!”

Well, no one was pleased much about that development, but it wasn’t as if they couldn’t trust the wizard to take care of Bilbo. Thorin wouldn’t have let him on the journey if he couldn’t be trusted with that much.

“Well,” the miner said loudly, “come on, Bombur, I’m sure Óin can find us something useful to do, eh?”

And that was the end of that.

 

“Excuse me,” Bilbo said softly to the harried-looking Elf Lord Elrond had told to look after the Company’s needs. “I don’t suppose you could direct me to the library?”

Lindir blinked.

“The library?” he asked.

“Well, yes, if I may. I’ve heard it’s very extensive, and I’d rather like the chance to see it for myself before we go…”

“Oh. I. Yes, of course,” the Elf stammered. “Please follow me.”

Lindir seemed a bit confused, but he led her on to Rivendell’s library. The shelves stretched high into the air, carved with the masterful plant motifs most of the valley was decorated with. Bilbo turned in a slow circle, neck craned to get a full view.

It was ten minutes later as she looked up from a book of maps detailing the Anduin that Bilbo realized two things. First, she had never thanked Lindir for leading her to the library, and second that he was gone. Which was, well. Of course he wouldn’t want to stand around while she flipped through Sindarin poetry and the history of the Second Age. Her cheeks flushed – what would her aunts and uncles have said about such rudeness!

Her father would not have scolded her for it, because even though her actions were certainly not acceptable, he also knew when not to press the bounds of his own credulity – ignoring others for reading material was a bad habit she had learned from _him_ , after all.

With Lindir gone, there was really nothing to do but keep reading, though. And so she did.

 

Though there was a pulse of pain tapping behind her eyes and just above the bridge of her handsome nose, Ori felt much better that evening. Really. And if most of that recovery had to do with the stack of books Bilbo walked in the door with, well, no one had to tell Dori that.

“Where did you _get_ those?” Ori asked the Hobbit, wonder coloring her tone.

Bilbo smiled in response, setting down the books between them and flipping through the top one.

“Lord Elrond’s library. Master Lindir was kind enough to show me the way. I’m not sure I’m allowed to take books out of it, so I only grabbed a few.”

The guilty smile on the Hobbit’s face was enough to set Nori laughing from where she sat – limbering up, possibly for another impromptu and likely unappreciated game of tag with Dwalin. Ori grinned herself, tapping her finger down the stack, a finger-length away from their spines as she read the titles.

“Oh!”

The sound was startled out of her, and made Bilbo jump. Ori shrugged in apology as she snatched a tome from the middle of the stack.

“These are old Khuzdul nursery stories!” the scribe explained, flipping through the book with all the giddiness of childhood. “Where did you find them?”

She was hardly even listening for Bilbo’s response, flipping carefully through the well-preserved pages and cooing over the artistry of the illustrations.

“—corner of the shelf. The lettering reminded me of the etchings on Dwalin’s weapons, so… I thought you might like to see it.”

Ori blinked, coming back to herself – at the mention of Dwalin, _of course_ , Nori would call her an Elf if she kept her head in the clouds much more – and she managed a nod at Bilbo.

“Well,” Ori said. “Thank you.”

Suddenly Bombur and Bifur settled down on either side of Ori, craning their heads over her slim shoulders to get a peek at the book. Bofur plopped down next to Bilbo with her legs crossed and let out a loud, carefree laugh.

“Sorry ‘bout them, Ori!” she teased. “Bifur’s always loved nursery stories – and Bombur has to, now, being he has so many wee dwarflings to read them to!”

Ori shrugged her shoulders and held the book open a little further from her body to allow the others a better view.

“I don’t mind.”

Kíli, recovered from the sleepiness of medicine a little earlier than her sister, joined them soon after. Then Dwalin stole over, though she kept shooting glances back at their king to make sure of her safety. Unlike Kíli and Bifur, Dwalin did not move to touch the book or turn its pages. She kept her large hands firmly in her lap.

One-by-one, the other Dwarrows of the Company made their way over, and the evening was spent poring over silly old nursery stories. Óin, Balin, and herself took turns translating the tales to Westron for Bilbo. She, in response, called up a few of the tales her father used to tell her as a child. Interestingly enough, there were many with at least a passing similarity, and Ori found herself itching to take notes.

Just as her hand moved to search out her journal, it dropped into her lap. When Ori glanced up, she found Dori smiling back at her. And maybe it was a bit silly to be so glad her sister knew her that well, given they lived together, but Ori didn’t mind. She smiled back, then hurriedly flipped her journal open and began jotting whatever in the conversation struck her fancy.

By the time she lay down to sleep that night, Ori realized that her head really _did_ feel much better.

 

Bilbo Baggins, as happenstance would have it – happenstance being sneaking off in the middle of breakfast – spent the morning once more wandering Rivendell. She returned the books she had borrowed from Lord Elrond, hopefully with no one any wiser about it, in case she really wasn’t supposed to take anything from the building. And then she lost herself in the beauty around her.

A few butterflies flitted over the sparkling water, settling onto bushes nearby. Bilbo took a deep breath. Yes. Some time alone was what she needed. Or more of it – the taste she’d gotten while reading in Lord Elrond’s library had been nice, but after three days of being followed near everywhere, she’d need more than a few hours to recover – she’d spent the past six years alone, after all, save reliable Holman Greenhand and the rather more undesirable attentions of her extended relations. Being so closely watched by the Dwarves, well, it put her on edge.

She knew they meant well. Rather, she hoped they did, and that Gandalf’s rather vague insinuations about it being a good sign were on the mark.

Bother. She was thinking about unpleasant things again. Bilbo twitched her nose sharply and sniffed. No use in worrying. No use at all.

So she went on her way, weaving through sunlit buildings and open walkways.

At last she came to a room, up a flight of stairs with a large statue. It offered out a tray or shield in its hands, and there was something on top, only it was too tall to see what. She leaned up on her toes slightly and caught a glint of steel in the yellow light.

A sword, shattered into fragments.

But then her attention was arrested by a large mural on the wall. It depicted what looked to be a great battle – two large figures locked in battle. A Man, lying on his side, holding up a glowing, broken blade. And a malevolent figure towering over him in black armor, raising a mace.

As she studied the depiction, her gaze was drawn to the villain’s hand, where a yellow-gold band encircled one of his fingers. It was too well-crafted to be a flaw in the painting, surely.

A ring?

Bilbo’s stomach lurched uncomfortably, but she wasn’t sure why.

She hurried away.

 

The mural and the ring were soon forgotten in the bright air of Rivendell. Birds were singing, water rushing merrily, and wind whispering silly, childish secrets into the leaves of trees. It left a warm, belonging feeling in her round belly.

“If I ever grow so old as to need to retire myself,” the Hobbit said aloud, “I’ll certainly come here, if they’ll have me.”

She doubted even old age could make one feel unwell in such a place.

At last, Bilbo’s wandering led her to a high balcony, with a beautiful view of the entirety of Rivendell. The Hobbit found herself captivated.

As she gazed out at the valley, her hands crossed at her back and her head only just above the top of the balcony’s railing, Bilbo heard soft footsteps echo behind her. Much softer than any Dwarf’s, and softer still than Gandalf’s tread, which was often accompanied by the tap of his staff. An Elf, then.

And as they came and stood beside her, Bilbo chanced a quick glance upward to find Elrond, wearing long golden robes.

“Not with your,” he glanced backwards, “companions?”

Bilbo hid a smile. A crack in the Elf Lord’s composure – a small one, but it was there. Then again, she’d been wary enough of Thorin’s Company herself, and compared to the havoc they’d wreaked in Rivendell, a little mud in her carpets was nothing. It was odd and refreshing to see someone with larger guest problems than herself. She offered a commiserating smile up at Lord Elrond.

“Ah, no,” the Hobbit said surely. “I shan’t be missed.”

She turned her gaze back out at the view, but Elrond stayed silent, and it made Bilbo uncomfortable to let such a silence stretch in the presence of someone so important. And there was something very soothing about the Elf Lord. She liked him, for all that they’d so far not exchanged a single word. The way he interacted with Gandalf was proof enough he was a good sort, and his elegance in the entirely inelegant matter of Dwarves had won her respect a hundred times over.

“The, uh, the truth is,” she admitted, shifting, unable to plant her gaze anywhere, “most of them don’t think I should _be_ on this journey.”

“Indeed,” Lord Elrond mused, as though he did not think much of such opinions. “I’ve heard that Hobbits are very resilient.”

Bilbo let out a self-depreciating laugh, but when Elrond stayed silent, she stopped and glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. He was serious. She colored in a heart-pounding mix of embarrassment and pleasure.

“… Really?” the Hobbit asked, shuffling her feet shyly.

“I’ve _also_ heard they are fond of the comforts of home,” the Elf lord continued, looking out over his valley and then down at her.

Bilbo pursed her lips a little, and nodded.

“Well, I,” Bilbo replied in a self-important whisper, “have heard it is unwise to seek the counsel of Elves, for they will say both yes, and no.”

It was only after the entire piece had erupted from her mouth that Bilbo fully realized that she had given a ridiculous amount of cheek to a very important Elf lord. Eyes wide, she looked up at Elrond to gauge his reaction. Their eyes locked for a long, tense moment.

And then she saw the corner of his mouth twitch up into an entertained smile. It prompted a nervous laugh from her own lips. Elrond’s gaze softened, out of the cool starriness Bilbo had come to associate with Elves, and he placed an elegant hand on her shoulder.

“You are very welcome to stay here,” he told her gently. “If that is your wish.”

And then in a soft whirl of cloth, Elrond strode away, and Bilbo could only stare fixedly at where he had been with painful indecision in her expression.

It would be nice, to stay in Rivendell. It was peaceful, and calm. The Elves seemed to not only tolerate, but like her. She could regain all the Sindarin she had lost to time and the business of running a household on her own. There were no trolls or Orcs in Rivendell. And certainly few would be sad to see her go, except that she was the lucky fourteenth member of their troop.

But she hadn’t run out her door for Rivendell, no matter its beauty. There was still something unknown deep in her heart that had tied her to the Dwarves of the Company. A fierce, aching longing she had not known since she was a child, when everything in the world had the importance of life and death. Just what she wanted, Bilbo did not know, but it keened sharply in the notes of Thorin’s song and the way the Company had eaten in her home as though they’d never had a proper meal in their lives.

They had a dream, and for some inexplicable reason – no matter that she was hardly even capable of taking care of _herself_ much less thirteen Dwarves – she wanted to protect it.

Bilbo let out a shaky breath, twitched her nose to try and erase the deepness of the feelings thrumming in her chest, and scrubbed a hand over her eyes. Ridiculous. She was getting sentimental in her middle age.

 

It was that very sentimental realization which drew her back to the Company, however. They were ridiculous and infuriating and she didn’t understand them – especially their king – but she was going to see their journey through or her name wasn’t Bilbo Baggins. Which it most certainly was.

And she entered the dining room for dinner to find that – for the first time in the past several days, most of the Company was actually there for the meal. Prior, they had mostly been requesting – forcefully, as she had come to understand it, on Balin’s orders – meals be brought to their room. She’d assumed it was some sort of petty revenge for the Elves’ initial refusal to serve meat – but then again, many of the Company had looked a bit ill. Perhaps the lack of meat really had done them a bad turn somehow…

“Bilbo! There you are,” Nori greeted brightly, waving her over. “Have you stolen any more books lately?”

“I’ve not—I didn’t—Agh. Dwarves!”

But she couldn’t help the smile to her face when two tables of Dwarves roared with laughter. Whatever had been the problem between them all, it seemed to have been resolved. And Bilbo was pleased with that – though a little put out she didn’t know what had soured their attitudes in the first place.

But as Bifur tapped out a rhythm on the tale using spoons, and Thorin stole a leg of meat out from under Dwalin’s inked hand, and Óin stuffed a napkin in the wide end of his ear trumpet to drown out an unexpectedly heated argument between Dori and Glóin, she found that the reason didn’t matter. Bilbo was happy enough to be part of their ridiculous Company once again.

 

After they had all eaten, the Company returned to their room together. For a very brief, worrying moment, Bilbo wondered if perhaps the lightheartedness and openness which had characterized dinner would fade quickly afterwards, but then Kíli approached shyly with her comb.

“Would you…?”

“Yes!” Bilbo agreed, perhaps a bit too eagerly for a collected gentlehobbit, but she had missed the princess’s banter. “Yes, of course, Kíli.”

They settled in the same place as before, and Bilbo lost herself in the gentle motions of untangling the Dwarf princess’s hair. Still, a part of her mind buzzed at her that, really, it’d been a rather long time since she’d promised herself to apologize to Kíli for the misconception about her sex, and it was best to go about fulfilling that promise sooner than later. Bilbo cleared her throat, and her fingers started plaiting a thick braid into Kíli’s long hair, similar to the one at the back of Fíli’s head.

“Kíli, I… About… That is…”

Bilbo sighed loudly. How was it she could find the words for a song so easily, but an apology was so hard? She was a Hobbit of good breeding, and saying sorry wasn’t such a difficult thing to do!

“What is it?” the princess asked.

“It’s just – the day before the trolls. I’m sorry about the confusion.”

“Before the… Trolls…” Kíli murmured slowly.

“I really am sorry, Kíli,” Bilbo sighed, eyes downcast. “I guess I just assumed you were, well… Male.”

“Don’t go saying things like that,” called an amused voice from behind them, “or she’ll think she’s grown into her beard at last!”

Bilbo whipped her torso around, startled, which of course displaced her hands and completely ruined what she’d been doing with Kíli’s hair. The princess herself responded to her brother with something loud and likely unflattering in Khuzdul.

“Anyway,” she huffed when Fíli was too busy gawping at her language to talk back, “it’s no insult for an outsider to mistake a Dwarf’s sex. Our menfolk are just as capable as we are, after all.”

 

Kíli still didn’t quite understand what had Bilbo so flustered. After all, the whole point of dressing in more masculine clothing – besides the rather unwieldy nature of skirts in rough travel situations – was to make others assume they were Dwarf-men. Bilbo had done the same, hadn’t she? It was a sign of how much Thorin trusted the Hobbit that she had been fine with Bilbo knowing they were Dwarf-women. Not having known immediately wasn’t shameful, it was the whole point.

But Kíli did have to admit to herself that I was a little nice to have someone apologize for something that _wasn’t_ an ill-disguised insult to her beard. She shrugged it off when the Hobbit returned to plaiting her hair. The sensation of small, slender fingers in her hair and brushing her scalp was too soothing to let the princess ponder on much of anything.

And then there was a little “Oh!” from Bilbo, the only warning before Kíli felt familiar, callused hands working her hair on the opposite side as the Hobbit.

“She’s still hopeless with braids,” Fíli mused fondly. “Even after almost eighty years.”

Kíli puffed out her cheeks in annoyance, but didn’t contradict. Her sister was telling the truth after all.

“Well,” replied Bilbo, “it is often hard to do much of anything with your own hair. You won’t see _me_ attempting any fancy braids or intricate styles.”

“Ha!” the princess exclaimed, half-tempted to turn and gloat at her elder but knowing it would only ruin her hair a second time.

Instead, she kept her pleased look trained out at the starry night.

“It’s about all I can do to keep it from my face!” Bilbo continued, mostly to herself it seemed – like Thorin, their Hobbit had a penchant for rambling. “I’ll likely need to cut it, before the journey’s through.”

Kíli heard her sister’s gasp match her own.

“Cut it?” the prince demanded. “What for? Surely you haven’t done anything to warrant that!”

“Yes, stealing from Elves isn’t really a stain on your honor,” Kíli insisted, latching onto the only possible transgression the Hobbit had made in the last several days. “Even if they are fair to look on! And you put the books back!”

Her struggle to stay facing outwards mounted, as everything in her demanded she turn and study Bilbo’s eyes to try and understand just what the Hobbit could be thinking.

“What?” Bilbo squawked, startled. “Why would that have anything to do with my hair?”

“If it’s something Thorin’s said, then—” Fíli interjected, worrying at Kíli’s hair instead of tying it off.

“Thorin? No, Thorin hasn’t… What does that have to do with cutting my hair?”

There was a long, long pause. Kíli wasn’t quite sure to say, only then it hit her. A strange thought, but just strange enough to be true.

“Do you—Do Hobbits not cut their hair form shame?” the princess asked.

“What? Well no, of course not!”

And there it was.

“What, really?” demanded Fíli. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

“But I did!” Kíli sang, and earned a tug on her hair for her trouble.

“Does,” Bilbo asked, sounding a bit startled, but tying off her half of Kíli’s hair, “does that mean you lot do? Cut your hair for shame, or whatever that was?”

Fíli stalled at that, and Kíli found herself pausing as well. The thing of it was, it wasn’t exactly socially acceptable to go around spouting off Dwarfish culture on a whim. And they liked Bilbo – or Kíli did, and she was sure her sister did as well – but she wasn’t exactly sure what Thorin would say. By the sound of it Fíli didn’t either, and she was the responsible one…

“Ah, sorry,” Kíli said loudly, trying to laugh it off.

Bilbo, she found with some relief, went along with it. Mahal bless the Hobbits and their good breeding.

“C’mon, we ought to get back to the others,” suggested Fíli, finally tying off the braid she’d been plaiting into the right half of Kíli’s hair.

 

Though her heart lurched a bit when the prince and princess closed up, it wasn’t as if that was the first time she’d been steered away from a topic – what with the gemstone meanings, and well Dwarves were known for their secrecy after all, weren’t they? Hobbits were very private themselves, it didn’t mean much – it wasn’t as if she’d hand over her grandmother Baggins’ recipe for lemon-cakes to them. It was all perfectly reasonable, really.

The volume from the room, which Bilbo found she’d been tuning out quite effectively until that particular moment, had increased to an incredible extent. By what she could catch – between Bifur’s growling in Khuzdul – they were talking, or perhaps arguing, about why they’d each joined the Company in the first place.

“Nori’s doing it for the money,” Glóin accused, though not meanly.         

“And I suppose you’re doing it out of the good of your stingy heart, you clod?” retorted Óin as he whacked his brother on the side of the head.

“That I am, out of the good of my heart I’m here to keep _you_ out of trouble!”

The two continued to bicker even as none of the others paid them the slightest heed. Bofur nudged Bilbo with a shoulder and laughed his fool head off.

“Truth is,” said the miner merrily, “I’m only along because they promised free ale!”

Bilbo, for her part, couldn’t figure out if it was meant as a jest or not, so she just smiled weakly and nodded. The rest of the evening went in much the same manner – Dwarves were, next to wizards, probably the most confusing of all the races of Arda.

It was only as she watched the Company banter and argue that Bilbo realized their relatively peaceful, weeklong little sojourn in Rivendell was coming to an end. Her heart sank a little at the thought, but still, it was one step closer to finishing their mad quest.


	13. On Overstaying One’s Welcome Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last night in Rivendell.  
> Thorin learns what is on her map, and Bilbo overhears something she oughtn't have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, wow, I'm really sorry. This took forever, huh? To be fair, my end of semester was a nightmare.  
> This is officially the last of the Rivendell chapters, so we'll soon be on to the Misty Mountains! And the goblins!   
> And the end of the first movie, can you believe it? I'm really excited for what's to come, and I hope you are too!  
> (Soon, we'll be able to have everyone referred to with the proper pronouns in EVERY PoV thank the lord)
> 
> Additionally, this chapter's a little shorter than usual, but that's because of the whole part one-part two thing.

**Thorin wakes in the morning with elation and anxiety twisting in her belly. The last day of their stay in Rivendell is at hand, and while that at least means learning what the map says and getting away from the blasted Elves, it also means that the Misty Mountains are before them. And Thorin has not seen those peaks so close since—**

**She hurries herself getting ready for the day to distract from that thought.**

**The sun is well on its way into the sky when Tharkûn approaches, leaning against his staff in an affect of aged frailty. The dramaturge. He could very well be older than all of Arda, but frailty is far from the first word she would use to describe him.**

**“Tonight,” the wizard says without pretense, “Lord Elrond will be able to read your father’s map, Thorin. You need to make sure that the Company is gone as soon as the dawn begins to light the hills. It is certain that the Elves of Rivendell will try to stop you, or at least detain you. I will distract them, but only until daylight. Then I will follow after you. Wait for me in the mountains.”**

**Thorin snorts; she had expected as much. But she nods as well, because she knows that Tharkûn’s counsel is good, though redundant.**

**“I will tell the others,” she agrees verbally.**

**And so she does, gathering them all together. They will pack, discretely, throughout the day. In shifts, Thorin insists, so as not to draw attention to themselves. It’s true enough the Elves haven’t thusfar seemed to pay too much attention to them unless they’re causing grief, but Thorin is not about to have things ruined on the last day – and Elves are more devious than they appear.**

 

Balin had spent the final day corralling the lasses; the least she could do to take a little more weight from her king’s shoulders. Surprisingly, Kíli had been easy enough to settle into their secret packing rotation, and it was Fíli who was being trouble. The prince had apparently discovered Nori’s proclivity for hidden weapons, and was eager to show off her own considerable stash – fifteen in all. Impressive, though to Balin it might have been more so had she not known the prince had learned everything she knew about hidden weaponry from the Princess Dís.

The two were in the middle of exchanging tips about hiding weapon holsters, which was obviously an important topic to them, but less so to the rest of the Company for its lack of productivity in packing. Ori, Balin noted with some pride, eventually pushed her sister – sending the ginger thief’s boots skidding across the nice Elvish floor – to get to a bedroll she needed to roll up.

Then Lord Elrond stepped into the room, and everything immediately fell silent.

Thorin took her place before the Elf lord with an actually respectful bow – thank Mahal – and Balin stepped to her king’s side.

“At last,” Elrond said with a courtly dip of the head, thankfully making no mention of the fact that they’d built a fire in the middle of one of his floors, “it is time. Follow me, and I shall read your map, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Balin could see Thorin reaching into her coat to touch the map, and smiled a little. Finally. They would be getting their answer. Before they left the room, Thorin clapped Dwalin on the shoulder and muttered something in her ear. An order to look after the Company, more likely than not, by the way Dwalin immediately twisted her head to look over the group around the fire, her lips moving in a silent headcount. Yes, Balin knew her sister would take good care of things while she and Thorin were away.

Still, the parting itched under her skin a little after spending so many days together with the Company, dealing with their cycles together. And Balin was, as always, an elder sister – she worried after Dwalin, was all, even if there was no cause for it. In the end, Thorin’s eager smile eased something in Balin’s chest enough for her to take the first step.

Their walk was tense and silent in the starlight, and Elrond led the two of them and Gandalf out to a ledge below one of Rivendell’s huge waterfalls. The water was rushing so that it almost became a mist in the open air, and while Balin did not generally like water, she still knew and appreciated its power. Erebor had all but run on its masterful canals, after all.

“The map,” Elrond said, voice quiet but resonant as he held out a hand.

For the second time, Thorin passed it to him, and Balin felt her heart clench in her chest at the action. Necessary, yes, she knew that, but it went against all Dwarven instinct to offer such an important part of their history, their culture, their _identity_ to not only an outsider but an Elf. She was slightly comforted by the care with which Lord Elrond spread the map flat on a crystal table.

“Now,” the Elf lord murmured. “We shall see what this map has to say.”

There was a long moment of silence where nothing happened, and Thorin’s shoulders tensed in a way Balin knew would be painful for her later. Then, the moon, a crescent, appeared as the clouds covering it drifted past. In a blaze, moonlight beamed onto the table, and onto the map. Balin and Thorin both crowded closer to the table to watch, though their chins barely crested the top of it.

_Undignified_ , a little voice in the back of Balin’s head complained. It sounded like Dwalin, so she shushed it. Silvery runes began to shimmer and appear in a formerly blank corner of the map.

“Stand by the gray stone when the thrush knocks,” Elrond translated firmly, tracing an elegant finger under the letters, “and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the keyhole.”

Balin looked up at her king to find a panicked look in her eyes.

“That is ill news indeed,” Thorin said, giving voice to her worries. “The seasons are passing, Durin’s Day will soon be upon us.”

“We still have time,” Balin soothed, though she knew her own brows were pressed together in a fashion that would not bring Thorin comfort.

“Time?”

And if she had not been so caught up in trying to soothe Thorin, Balin might have realized that it was Lord Elrond asking the question. As it was, she was focused on keeping her king’s hopes rooted. There had never been much hope for their quest, but Thorin had decided to see it through, and that meant Balin would do her utmost to see it succeeded.

“To find the entrance,” the white-haired Dwarf said, never breaking eye contact with her king. “We have to be standing in _exactly_ the right spot, at _exactly_ the right time. Then, and only then, can the door be opened.”

“So, this is your purpose. To enter the mountain.”

 

**The Elf lord’s voice is accusatory, and it irks Thorin because she had been perfectly prepared to tell him exactly what they were going to do – the mountain was her birthright, and some valley-locked Elf had no right to stop her. That being the case, he has even less right to feel lied to, at least by Thorin.**

**“What of it?” the Dwarf king demands, crossing her stocky arms over her chest.**

**Lord Elrond’s eyes narrow in his thin face.**

**“There are some,” he says coolly, stressing some so that they all know he includes himself among that number, “who would not deem it wise.”**

**And Thorin does not give half a damn about them. She snatches up her map, folds it, and shoves it back into her coat. Tharkûn, however, seems interested enough to ask.**

**“Who do you mean?” he demands of the Elf.**

**“You are not the only guardian who watches over this world,” Lord Elrond answers.**

**Thorin has some brief satisfaction to see the wizard’s proclivity for speaking in riddles used against him. When both he and the Elf lord turn and leave, Thorin does not follow them. She turns back to their rooms, with Balin.**

Dwalin was a responsible guard. That was why she was captain – no matter what the young spurned upstarts had said about her father’s reputation having gotten her the position. Especially since most of the daft bastards ended up flat on their backs with several inches less of beard for it. Dwalin didn’t take insult to her skill lightly. Though, neither did most Dwarrows.

She’d seen the carnage from a Dwarf mad enough to insult Balin’s penmanship. And she hadn’t batted an eye at it, either.

The point, she mused to herself with a loud and vicious exhale, was that order ought to have been a simple thing to achieve, amongst only eleven Dwarrows.

It wasn’t.

Dori and Nori were bickering again, Bofur had the prince in a headlock, Óin had just smacked Bombur away from the rations she was packing. Bifur was shouting happily and shaking Ori by the shoulders – seemed the scribe had immediately come up with the Westron word she’d been looking for. The kind of thing Balin was also startlingly good at. The only quiet ones were Glóin and the princess. Softly discussing finance – Dwalin snorted. Who’d have guessed?

Of course everyone hushed up the second Thorin stepped through the door – damn her and her so-called kingly presence. Dwalin loved Thorin, but her king’s regality could be frustrating. Every drop of annoyance dissipated at the victory in Thorin’s eyes as she brandished the map, however.

“Stand by the gray stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the keyhole,” the Dwarf king recited, almost breathlessly.

Cheers went up throughout the group. Dwalin felt a rough grin creeping over her face, but the flat look in Balin’s eyes dimmed it. The guard took a second look at her king and saw a tension at the corners of her lips – a slight wince to her smile. Then it was gone.

Didn’t mean she’d forget about it, though. Dwalin might not be tactful, but she was no idiot, and Thorin wasn’t about to get out of whatever was bothering her. For the time being, and the sake of their Company, she tabled it, content with having her sister and her king back to reign in the damn idiots drinking themselves stupid in celebration.

 

Ori watched with interest as a giddy Bofur hauled Balin into the center of the room.

“Come on, Balin, drink with us!” the miner exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear.

“I’d rather you not—”

But Balin was cut off by a steadily-brewing row between Nori and Bombur of all people. The redheaded cook was holding his own against her older sister, Ori realized, blinking. He’d seemed so mild-mannered before; certainly one to complain, but that was in Dwarf nature. He’d never argued with anyone that she’d seen, even though Bofur got her fun by poking and prodding at her brother all the time. But there he was, grappling with Nori over… A ladle?

“M-my Bera gave me that!” Bombur puffed, digging his heels into the ground and hauling backwards with what appeared to be all his might.

“You did the same as me!” argued Nori, her boots skidding on the floor as she was dragged towards Bombur. “Digging through my pack!What about you, then?”

With that, Nori twisted her grip on the ladle and tugged it completely from its owner’s grip. But before Bombur could get in a retort or explanation, Dwalin was shouting.

“ _Nori_!” she snarled with authoritative ferocity. “Give it here!”

Ori could see the decision warring on her sister’s face – incite Dwalin’s further wrath in defiance, or play it safe and hand over the ladle? In the end, she managed a fine balancing act of both – offering the ladle to Dwalin, and then dropping it a second before the guard captain could get it in hand. However, to Ori’s delight, Dwalin kept her cool, simply snatching the ladle up and pressing it into Bombur’s waiting hands.

Job done there, the guard began a quick headcount, finger darting as it traced lines from each Dwarf to the next – something she did a lot, Ori had come to realize. With her large index finger pointed vaguely at Bifur, Dwalin frowned.

“Where is our burglar?”

 

Bilbo had been listening from afar to the Dwarves, as they laughed and shouted, but there was an odd, cold zipping feeling under her skin that made her seek out a relative amount of solitude. They were leaving in the morning, or before the morning. The safety of Rivendell would be behind them, with so many dangers ahead. The Hobbit rubbed her arms as she recalled Gandalf’s insistence that they were being hunted, the words of Lord Elrond’s sons about the Orcs pushing their borders.

“Of course I was going to tell you!” echoed sharply off the walls, and Bilbo’s gaze locked on Gandalf and Lord Elrond, who were walking far below her. “I was merely waiting for a chance. But I-I think you can trust I know what I’m doing.”

Lord Elrond’s steps were tight and brisk as he walked next to the wizard, and Bilbo could sense an argument brewing.

“Do you?” the Elf demanded. “That dragon has slept for sixty years. What will happen if your plan should fail? If you _wake_ the beast?”

 

**Thorin pauses, several strides behind the Hobbit as she eavesdrops. The night’s wind is soft – both quiet and gentle, able to whirl Miss Baggins’ copper-gold curls and not impede their overhearing the conversation between the wizard and Elf below.**

**“But if we _succeed_ ,” Gandalf is insisting, gesturing sharply with his staff, “if the Dwarves take back the mountain, our defenses in the East will be strengthened.”**

**But Lord Elrond is unmoved by the argument.**

**“This is a dangerous move, Gandalf,” he says sharply.**

**Thorin wonders why the wizard bothers to try and make a case for them, except to distract the Elves and give the Company time to leave. An argument on such a subject could, ostensibly, last until the morning.**

**“** It is also dangerous to do nothing. The throne of Erebor—”

A little shiver leapt up Bilbo’s spine and she realized she was not alone. The Hobbit turned her head to the left, slowly, and saw Thorin standing behind her with a grim expression, arms loosely in front of him with his left hand encircling his right wrist.

 “—birthright,” she registered Gandalf say in the background. “What is it you fear?”

Cheeks pinking and a little mortified she’d been not only caught eavesdropping but caught by the one Gandalf and Lord Elrond were arguing about, Bilbo turned back forward. She twitched her nose and tried to pretend there was not a regal, stone-stern Dwarf king standing behind her.

“Have you forgotten?” Lord Elrond demanded. “A strain of madness runs deep in that family. Thrór lost his mind—”

Bilbo shifted her weight uncomfortably, her heart pounding against her ribs and her pointed ears heating. She was hearing something she should not. Something private about Thorin’s family, that he surely would not want disclosed to a mere burglar. And what an experience it must be for him, to hear someone speak of his family so callously…

Bilbo could hear, though it was soft for a Dwarven footstep, as Thorin took a short stride forward. Her back prickled at the closed proximity. Lord Elrond, oblivious to both of them, continued to speak.

“—and Thorin’s father succumbed to the same sickness. Can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall?”

**The comment is like a jolt, and her instinct is to turn away from it – to hide the wounded look she is sure has stolen over her features.**

**Thorin feels ice surging through her extremities, drowning any rage she might feel before it even starts. Some Elf lord has _no right_ to speak about her family thus, but his words ping sharply against a fear she has held onto with a vice-grip since Thrór’s eyes first hazed with gilded feverishness. It chills her to have someone so far removed from her know about the sickness. There’s something shameful about it that she wants to hide away, wants to curl about the knowledge of it and protect herself and her family from outside scrutiny.**

**Bilbo’s eyes on her back are like a brand.**

**The wizard and the Elf continue to argue, but Thorin does not hear them.**

**“We, ah—should probably get back,” the Halfling suggests, and when Thorin glances up at her she is holding out a hand as though she wants to rest it on Thorin’s arm but is too afraid of the consequences.**

**The Dwarf king just nods, solemnly, to try and keep her shame at bay. Hearing Lord Elrond’s words herself was bad enough, but for the Hobbit to have heard them too is nigh unbearable. They are both silent as they return to the rest of the Company, who are rowdy with success and the fact that it is their last chance to cause trouble for the Elves before they head the long ways over the Misty Mountains.**

**“We leave at first light,” she reminds them all. “Get what rest you can.”**

 

It was only after doing several rounds – of watch, not pacing because Dwalin did not _pace_ no matter what Balin said about her – that Dwalin noticed the Halfling sitting on the balcony alone, back arched as she leaned over her little knees. As the Dwarf approached Bilbo, the Hobbit lass glanced up at her with a sad, wry sort of smile.

It was a familiar expression. Before she knew it, Dwalin found herself sitting alongside their burglar. But she wasn’t nosy – like Óin – instead, she just watched the Hobbit and waited.

“I can’t sleep,” Bilbo explained softly, hugging her legs to her chest. “I just keep thinking… This is the furthest from home I’ve ever been. And every step further will be the same. I didn’t think stepping out my door would be so— It’s like I’ve been swept off my feet, like the road is just blowing me along to places unknown.”

At that Dwalin nodded, leaning back and bracing herself on her hands.

“Aye. I know the feeling well,” she admitted, allowing herself a sardonic smile.

It was all she had known for years, before Ered Luin. Nowhere to tether herself to, no solid arc of stone above her head, nothing singing to her in the rock beneath her feet. Other Dwarrows assumed – rudely – that she had shite stone sense. But the green pillars and floors of Erebor had filled her ribcage with a pounding drumbeat that her heart instinctively echoed.

After the dragon, her heart’s cadence had faltered. Once. And then it latched onto Thorin.

Dwalin lifted her chin and twisted her mouth into a tight frown, feeling heat spread high on her cheeks. Stupid. There was no reason to be getting sentimental. She cleared her throat and smirked down at the Hobbit to diffuse her sudden awareness of the rhythm of her own heartbeat.

“Though you’re a bit fussy, you’ve done well by us, lass,” she commented archly. “Even if you did tell the trolls to skin us.”

Bilbo buried her face in her hands with a groan.

“It was all I could _think of_!” the Halfling protested.

“Be that as it may.”

Dwalin grinned in earnest then, settled at last with one short conversation more than all the pacing— _patrolling_ she’d done combined. They would be getting an early start in the morning, and though she was a warrior – or perhaps especially because of that – Dwalin needed her sleep.

“Stay close,” she instructed at last.

Then she patted Bilbo on the shoulder, did a final headcount, and lay down to rest her eyes.

 

**Thorin opens her eyes as Dwalin curls up to sleep. The Hobbit is still sitting out on the balcony. Alone. And she could sneak off again with no one watching. And pretending to sleep is getting boring. The Dwarf king is restless, as she has been the entire week.**

**So Thorin gets up quietly and strides out to stand next to Bilbo. The Halfling manages a slight smile and pats the floor, and before she can really decide anything Thorin is sitting down next to her. They are both silent for a long moment, and Thorin looks up at the moon, willing it to hold its place, to give them enough time to reach Erebor. This is her last and only chance. She has to do this.**

**Beside her, the burglar sighs softly, looking down at the valley.**

**“It really is beautiful.”**

**Thorin snorts despite herself as she crosses her arms and rests them on her knees.**

**“Wait until you see Erebor.”**

**It’s Bilbo’s turn to snort then, the disbelief on her face clear as she finally turns away from the scenic vista of Rivendell.**

**“After sixty years of dragon? Yes, I’m sure Smaug has been doing a great deal of housework and upkeep to prepare for our visit,” snarks the Halfling.**

**But there’s a glimmer in her eyes that catches the light of the moon and magnifies it tenfold. Thorin chokes. After several seconds of coughing, and Bilbo fretting from the side, the Dwarf king gathers her breath and her control, even if her heart is still thundering in her chest.**

**“Thorin?”**

**“It’s nothing,” she grunts in response, curling her posture tighter.**

**She has much less success convincing herself of that, but what matters is that the burglar leaves off questioning. She’s let the relative restfulness of Rivendell get to her, that’s what this is, Thorin tells herself. She’s forgotten the urgency due to having to wait so long to get an answer about her father’s map. It has nothing to do with the Halfling, or the way she sometimes looks at Thorin like she’s something untouchable.**

**It is this damnable place. And they will be away with the dawn.**


	14. When Is a Mountain Not a Mountain?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is behind, and the Misty Mountains are ahead. Our heroes find themselves in the middle of an unexpected battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, we are so close to finishing the first movie! Whew. This chapter was an absolute monster to finish. But it's longer than usual, so please bear with me!

To Bilbo, it seemed as if she had only just closed her eyes when Bifur was shaking her shoulder, urging her to her feet.

“Is it time already?” the Hobbit yawned, though the gray-pink tinge to the sky told the answer well enough.

“Sorry, lass,” apologized Balin, offering a slight smile and handing her a pack and her walking stick.

Well, there was honestly nothing for it. Bilbo was fond of the Elves, but she understood quite well that their quest was not looked on fondly by the natives of Rivendell. Even Gandalf agreed. Which might have, had she been any other Hobbit, informed Bilbo that the adventure she was on was certainly not one she ought to be on. Thinking this, she gave one last, long glance back at the valley as they climbed the cliff on the opposite side they’d entered from a week before.

“Miss Baggins,” Thorin said sternly, breaking into the Hobbit’s melancholy thoughts, “I suggest you keep up.”

There was something of a physical ache low in her gut as she turned her back on Rivendell, but Bilbo did it anyway. Balin had taken the lead in the group, and the Hobbit found herself the very last member of the company climbing the well-carved stairway out of the valley.

In truth, the land they exited out onto did not seem all that different from the ground they had run from the orc pack on, except that it hung more heavily in the shadow of the Misty Mountains. Having lived her whole life in the Shire, among hills, their peaks seemed like impossibilities. How could one ever cross such monstrous things? How could the world be large enough to accommodate them?

Would Erebor be so large?

But she was too embarrassed to ask and reveal her ignorance, so she adjusted her pack and continued to march in silence.

 

The sun had only just finished rising above the horizon line, leaving the sky orange and pink, and Gandalf found himself staring out at it just to ease his mind after the long and arduous talk with Saruman the night before. Most talks with Saruman seemed to drain his energy that way, to be perfectly honest, though Gandalf was much too polite to say so.

All at once, he was aware of a presence behind him.

“You will follow them?” asked Galadriel, inclining her head slightly as he turned to look at her.

The answer, for what it was, was obvious.

“Yes,” he answered, an impossible mixture of guilty and unashamed.

She nodded then, offered a slight smile.

“You are right to help Thorin Oakenshield.”

There was a short pause afterwards, but they both knew there was a cautioning to come. Things were not as simple as ‘right’ and ‘wrong’, not with a forgotten evil stealing over the horizon again. What he planned to do was dangerous, and not just for those in the Company, or himself.

“But I fear,” said Galadriel, “this quest has set in motion forces we do not yet understand. The riddle of the Morgul blade must be answered.”

And you must be the one to do it, was her unspoken judgment. Because Saruman was not willing to look for an enemy none of them wanted to face again. Because everyone else, with their homes and kingdoms and people, were too busy protecting those things. And the Wanderer, the Grey Pilgrim, was perfect for a task like that.

The Lady’s eyes had gone distant and blue, staring far over the eastern horizon.

“Something moves in the shadows,” she said softly. “Unseen, hidden from our sight. It will not show itself, not yet. But every day it grows in strength.”

Then her gaze was back on him, and Gandalf felt pierced.

“You must be careful,” the Lady cautioned.

He nodded in response, offered a slight smile, and said, “Yes.”

But as the wizard turned to go on his way, on to the task he’d been charged, her voice stopped him. He looked back.

“Mithrandir?” the Lady said softly, watching him from low but all-seeing eyes. “Why the Halfling?”

And he wanted to give her a reason worthy of the importance of the quest, but the fact that she had to ask at all only went to show how tangled his thoughts and feelings on the matter were.

“I don’t know,” Gandalf answered honestly and immediately.

But he wanted to explain it to her as much as to himself, the solidness that the idea of Belladonna’s daughter created in his chest. Despite her small stature, despite her rather ordinary existence, things Saruman would sneer at. And that thought launched Gandalf forward, speaking words as they came to him.

“Saruman believes it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found. I’ve found it is the small things, everyday deeds of ordinary folk, that keeps the darkness at bay. Simple acts of kindness and love, the things Hobbits abound in for all their supposed silliness and frivolity. Why Bilbo Baggins?” Gandalf mused at last, eyes softening. “Perhaps it is because I’m afraid… And she gives me courage.”

The Hobbit in her father’s patched trousers, running after their caravan of ponies and waving a contract longer than she was tall. The pure determination, warring with panic, as she attempted to stall the mountain trolls. The simple awe on her face at the sight of Rivendell. A middle-aged, thoroughly stagnated, ridiculous Hobbit, fond of doilies and dishes – but with the sheer stubbornness to stop a Dwarf, the easy love of simple things to balance out greed, and capable of more bravery than anyone. And whether Saruman or the Lady thought it ridiculous, his faith in her was unshakable.

But then Galadriel was holding his wizened hands in her soft ones, looking up at him like he were a child. Her voice echoed in his head, soothing, telling him not to fear.

“You are not alone,” she concluded aloud, running her thumb over the back of his hand, and then shifting a lock of his gray hair out of his face.

Then, at their parting, she promised him protection in her own tongue, and it curled around him like a spell of safety. Gandalf bowed, breathed in that safety, and then turned towards the darkness.

 

Bofur, for one, was glad to get back to mountains. She hadn’t always been a miner by choice, true, but her hands were sturdy enough anyway and mining wasn’t so bad a thing. Blue Mountains stones, for all that everyone sneered at ‘em for not bein’ so rich as Erebor, were at least good conversationalists.

Only, the Misty Mountains were a sight gloomy beneath her boots.

They wheezed and coughed like a sick old coal miner, bragging in reedy voices about mithril, half-choked under the weight of goblins, no doubt. A sad affair. But it wasn’t as if they, all fourteen of ‘em, could fight all the goblins of the Misty Mountains, anyway. They’d be hard-pressed enough to fight a dragon – Bofur tried not to think about that. It put her braids in an awful twist, and the ‘Ri sisters and Bilbo got upset something fierce whenever Bofur coped with dark humor.

Nah, best to just try and stay chipper.

That in mind, the miner twirled her mattock on her shoulder like a lady’s parasol and whistled to herself.

That sorta thinking worked well for the first day or two, clambering over the roots of the mountain. But as they climbed, well…

Then it began to rain.

And if there was anything as could put a damper on Bofur’s spirits, it was rain.

Because it wasn’t the nice sprinkly rain of the Shire, or hot summer rain that made you feel like you could take on the whole world. No, it was more like running your head under a water-wheel, the kind of cold rain that stung your face and puddled in your boots.

And filled up the brim of your hat.

And with that kind of weather about, she could only be miserable alongside everyone else.

 

Climbing up towards the peaks of the Misty Mountains, Bombur hadn’t thought the weather actually could get any worse – climbing across ledges barely a single Dwarf wide, and a torrent of icy rain more accurately called a monsoon – but he was quickly proven wrong, when a flash and a sharp crack rent the air. Thankfully his sister and Bifur were there to keep him from toppling over the side of the mountain when he jumped in fright. Altogether, their journey was falling more and more into the category of ‘completely miserable’ and ‘not worth coming’, if he was honest.

It was dreadfully cold and he was absolutely starving and too waterlogged to even bother complaining about any of it.

 

Bilbo was beginning to lose track of the days. It’d been raining for what felt like forever. Even their cloaks had become useless, with the way the storm slanted water into every crevice. At some point they’d all given up. Bilbo hoped she didn’t catch ill, but from the way things were going she just might.

If she didn’t fall to her death. The path they’d started at the base of the mountain had been plenty wide, but anymore it was little more than a ledge, leaving the Company in a precarious single-file line.

As she tried to sling the dripping bangs from her eyes, Bilbo slipped. The stone beneath her feet broke away, and a shriek escaped her lips, though it barely made a sound above the roaring of thunder. Two thick hands grabbed her by the arms and hauled her up – Dwalin on the right and Bofur on the left. The two of them had sandwiched her in since the lightning began, and while she’d felt a bit like they were treating her as a fauntling, she was suddenly grateful. It was a long ways down the mountain.

And then a flash of lightning lit up the sky and highlighted a massive boulder flying towards their group, end over end.

“Look out!” Dwalin screamed, voice strained to alert everyone over the storm.

Bilbo threw herself back against the mountainside as hard as she could, and squeezed her eyes shut. The jagged rock had surely torn through her jacket. Dwalin and Bofur’s hands still circled her arms in a death grip. With an ear-shattering smash, the boulder shattered against the mountainside. And Bilbo felt the vibrations all the way down to her woolly, frozen toes.

 

Kíli’s ears were still ringing when she heard Balin’s shout.

“This is no thunderstorm!” the old scholar called, her voice hoarse. “It’s a thunder battle!”

To the princess’s right, Bofur ducked out from under the overhang to get a better look. Kili was torn between admiration for her bravery and familiar, childhood terror.

The Blue Mountains had been quiet. There were no thunder battles there. But it hadn’t stopped older Dwarrows from telling stories of massive stone giants, destroying entire mountainsides in a single night. Stone standing up and moving of its own volition, massive and mute and unlistening. Jagged statues with no concept of the small lives they could so easily destroy.

Kíli had suddenly found herself in the middle of one of her old nightmares, with no way out.

“—the legends are true!” she heard Bofur shout.

But while Bofur sounded amazed, awed, Thorin as usual was a master of herself. Throwing out an arm, the Dwarf King gestured for Bofur to fall back against the mountain.

“Take cover you fool!” she snapped, too far away to do anything about it.

Kíli snatched Bofur, pulling the miner towards herself and away from the ledge. Having unbalanced Bofur, the princess found that she’d inadvertently pulled her into a hug. They clung to each other, and though she’d never say it, there was something comforting about it.

Over Bofur’s shoulder, Kíli saw Dwalin hauling Ori and Bilbo into her chest and covering them with her thick arms.

Kíli was squinting through the rain to try and pinpoint her sister when the rocks below her feet began to shake.

 

“Look out, Óin!” Glóin shouted, and prayed his sister could hear him. “Jump!”

She was older than him, and it was her job to look out for him, but once they’d both passed their first century, a few years’ difference in age didn’t mean much. And Oín was the kind of Dwarf to give in to her reckless tendencies more often than not.

Thankfully, Thorin was there to grab her arm and pull her across the split that had formed. Even so, half the Company had been lost on the other side. It was difficult to see through the rain, but Fíli was screaming, reaching her arm as far as it would go. The distance was too large by then. Impossible as it seemed, their Company was standing on the legs of one of the battling stone giants.

 

**The arc they make through the air is impossibly wide, Thorin thinks. And yet the other half of the Company is even further away from the safety of the mountain. She can’t watch them. She just can’t. Instead, she studies her own group’s trajectory, tugging Óin and Glóin forward, urging the others to bunch up behind her. They’re going to have to leap back to safety, and she needs them all prepared.**

**Finally, the moment presents itself.**

**“Jump!” Thorin orders, just before taking the leap herself.**

**She immediately rolls forward, to make room for the others, and it’s almost too difficult to look behind herself to see how the others have fared.**

**Fíli almost doesn’t make it. Her arms are over the ledge, up to the armpit, but the rest of her hangs free. Only Nori’s fist gripping the back of the young prince’s tunic saves her disastrous jump. Safe. Fíli is safe, Thorin has to remind herself.**

**But the giant’s other leg is still moving. It reels back, twists awkwardly. There’s a crash of thunder, Thorin’s ears are ringing. Everything seems to slow down as she realizes what’s about to occur.**

**Then, with an earth-shattering crash, the stone giant’s leg smashes into the mountainside. And it has half their company still atop it. Thorin feels a surge go through her like a hook has latched onto her insides and is trying to yank them out through her mouth in one sharp tug.**

**She shudders, gags, and finally remembers how to breathe just in time to scream.**

**“No! Kíli!”**

**The giant is falling back, down the side of the mountain, and Thorin does not know where to look for the corpses of her Company, whether at the mountainside or the disappearing giant. Images flash behind her eyes with searing sharpness, of Dwarf princes with no tombs, of pyres with sick, red-black flames surging into the sky. There would not even be that—**

**But as she rushes for the ledge where the collision occurred, there is a pile of Dwarrows safe and sound, Kíli raising her dripping head dazedly, flailing an arm for a handhold so she can get to her feet again. Dwalin groaning, putting a hand to her shaved head. Thorin’s eyes flash from one Dwarf to another and she is able to take a deep breath as her body settles around her thundering heart.**

**“We’re alright!” calls Balin, waving at Glóin and Óin, gesturing to Dwalin’s bedraggled form. “We’re alive!”**

**A quick headcount confirms Balin’s words. Every missing Dwarf is accounted for.**

**Thorin does not cry, because kings do not panic.**

**She walks calmly where Fíli rushes for her sister, desperate to touch her face, to grip her shoulders in callused hands and ascertain her reality. Thorin breathes. And then Bofur is whipping her head back and forth, sloshing water off her hat in frenzied arcs.**

**“Where's Bilbo? Where’s the Hobbit?!”**

**_Mahal, no_.**

**Because just when she’s taken a breath of relief, the world turns on its head. As always. And now the Hobbit is missing, gone, dead, just as Thorin had always known she would be. The wizard was going to kill her. An innocent, soft life, snuffed completely out… Another empty grave.**

**“There!” shouts Ori, cutting into Thorin’s spiraling guilt.**

**Her mittened hand is pointing down, over the edge of the ledge. The Company peers over as one, and sees Bilbo clinging to a jagged bit of rock and shivering.**

**“Get her!” Dwalin orders.**

**Several hands reach, but none of them far enough. Ori throws herself down on the ledge on her belly, and holds out her arm as far as she can. Bofur does the same, calling for the Hobbit to grab on with panic in her voice. Bilbo tries to reach up and grab one of the hands offered to her, but slips.**

**Thorin’s heart jerks hard in her chest.**

**But the Halfling catches another handhold instead of falling into the abyss, and the Dwarf King wonders if her heart will give out from all this stress before she even sees Erebor again. It is clear not even Dwalin’s huge arms will be able to reach Bilbo now.**

**So Thorin does the most efficient thing and jumps down herself, hauling the Hobbit up by her rain-soaked pack for Bofur and the ‘Ri sisters to envelop in their waiting arms. Dori is fussing obviously. Nori less so, but she is fussing all the same. Thorin rolls her eyes, pulse slowing once more, and reaches out an arm to pull herself back over the ledge.**

**She misjudges her grip.**

**Thorin’s stomach plummets down into her toes, but before she can fall to her death, there is a familiar callused hand locked around her own. Dwalin. The guardsdwarf has her securely, dangling above the abyss by her hand. Thorin knows her shoulder will hurt later, but it’s preferable to death, obviously. With a great roar, Dwalin, braced against the ledge with her other hand, hauls Thorin back up.**

**The effort is enough to leave her sitting on the ground, winded, as Thorin gets to her feet.**

 

“I thought we’d lost our burglar!” Dwalin grunted, eyebrows raised and clearly trying to make light of the situation for Bilbo, who appreciated it immensely.

Despite being the most muscular and intimidating of the Dwarves – save Thorin, of course, who was far more terrifying in a less traditional manner – Dwalin had been good company even since Bag End, and Bilbo was extremely fond of him. That fondness grew when he stood on large, shaky legs and was there to haul her to her feet literally even as Thorin’s next words knocked her flat emotionally.

“She has been lost ever since she left home,” the Dwarf king growled. “She should never have come at all. She has no place amongst us.”

Even beneath the cold, needle-sharp pricks of rain and the steadily throbbing scrapes on her hands and feet, Bilbo could feel a very real wound in her chest. She struggled to breathe and continue on with the rest of the Company as the weight of worthlessness settled on her small shoulders.

 

“Dwalin!” Thorin called with a jerk of her head, in that sharp, kingly sort of tone that Dwalin knew meant she was burying her feelings.

But Thorin was like a sister to her, and she was their king, so even if her words to the Hobbit had been cruel, there wasn’t anything to say about it. Instead, Dwalin followed after Thorin, to look into the cave not thirty paces from where the Company was huddled. Best not to bring everyone, in case the place wasn’t a feasible option. Bombur and Glóin were prone to complaining whenever disappointments reared their heads, and for as much as they’d been schooled in kingly behavior the lasses weren’t much different.

Dwalin pulled a lantern from her pack and lit it, thankful that at least her tinder hadn’t been ruined by the rain. Though relatively small when compared to something with a tunnel system, and with a low-hanging ceiling, the cave was dry and empty with a smooth floor and would fit their numbers.

“Looks safe enough,” Dwalin offered, moving the lantern in a slow arc to light up the cavern.

“Keep looking,” insisted Thorin, her eyes darting to dark corners. “All the way to the back. It’s only very rarely that mountain caves are unoccupied.”

Overtly, the words implied bears, wolves, bats. Wild beasts. But Dwalin knew what really had Thorin’s hackles up. What plagued the Misty Mountains above all else.

A sneer worked its way over her face, and for a moment Dwalin realized that the last time she’d seen these peaks was Azanulbizar. The thought sent an ominous sick feeling zipping through her belly. But there was no time for that. There wasn’t. So she walked back as far as she could, until the cave ceiling sloped to the ground, and was careful to illuminate every corner.

“It’s all clear, Thorin,” Dwalin reported. “There’s nothing.”

At that proclamation, the Company began tumbling into the cave. Fíli was still clutching Kíli’s hand so tight that her knuckles had gone pale. Dori and Nori were hovering about their younger sister. Óin had a hand on Balin’s shoulder and didn’t look like she’d be removing it anytime soon. Bifur had formed some sort of strange daisy-chain with her cousins and the Hobbit.

Dwalin did a silent headcount, just to make sure their group was, once again, whole. She finished it just as Gloin dumped a bundle of wood in the middle of the floor. Mahal knew where he’d picked it up or stashed it, but the grin on his face was full of pride.

“Right then!” he said brusquely. “Let’s get a fire going.”

But Thorin shook her head, and Dwalin could see her king’s blue eyes still scouring every shadowy corner.

“No,” the Dwarf King said. “No fires, not in this place. Get some rest. We leave at first light.”

On her orders, the rest of the Company began rolling out their packs and bedrolls, huddled in family groups. And if Dwalin set herself and Balin a little closer to the ‘Ri’s, it was just coincidence.

Ori offered a trembling smile anyway. Dori and Nori inched their family’s bedrolls a bit closer still, keeping their younger sister sandwiched between them in a too-tight-not-to-be-desperate embrace. They were shaken.

Everyone was.

“We were to wait in the mountains until Gandalf joined us,” Balin pointed out softly, placing a gloved hand on Thorin’s arm. “That was the plan.”

“Plans change,” responded the Dwarf King swiftly, expression closed. “Bofur, take the first watch.”

But Dwalin had seen the flickers of funeral pyres go out in Thorin’s eyes, extinguished by the sight of her niece alive, and she _knew_. The lasses continued to clutch each other’s hands even as they settled down to sleep, but Thorin kept herself distant from everyone, seeking out a corner space to lay her bedroll, somewhere strategic. The fear in her eyes hadn’t quite settled, but she was still their king above everything else, and she was putting safety above comforting her own heart.

Thorin wouldn’t sleep that night, no matter who was on watch; Dwalin was sure of that.

 

The fearful silence was unnerving. Everyone was contemplating what they’d almost lost. Who they’d almost lost. Bifur knew that silence intimately. It had buzzed around her after the accident that left her unable to speak Westron, everyone silent, everyone fearful, and she’d had more than enough of it then. It made her chest go cold and he axe-wound ache.

So she nudged Bombur, who was beginning to doze, and formed out a question, the first to come to her mind, in Iglishmêk. He blinked at her sleepily, and shrugged.

“S’pose I’ll start up a restaurant,” he mused. “Buy apprenticeship for the little ones. Sindri wants to be a silversmith, y’know.”

Tired as he was, Bombur puffed up in pride, and Bifur felt her mouth grinning. Though she’d had no little ones of her own – had she? – her little nieces and nephews were all she required. After all, Bombur and his wife Bera had a great many of them – six in all, almost unheard of in Dwarfish society, and all so used to the axe in Bifur’s head they nearly never noticed it.

“What’s that, then?” called out Óin from across the cave, holding her trumpet to her ear.

But at the attention of another, Bombur clammed up, his face burning red. He’d forgotten his shyness in a bout of sleepiness, but like him it hadn’t taken much to reawaken it. Bifur pursed her lips and tugged at her beard, agitated. Her words were leaving her again, under the attack of her frustration. Bofur paused in the middle of wringing out her hat.

“Ah, they’re talkin’ about what t’do with their portions of the treasure,” she explained with a grin, nudging Bombur’s foot with her own.

Bifur nodded eagerly, and shot her cousin an appreciative look. Sometimes speaking was still intensely infuriating, when it wouldn’t come out in Westron as she desired. Bofur had adjusted a lot over the decades, making allowances for her brother’s shyness and her cousin’s injury. Her natural talkativeness was one thing, but Bifur suspected Bofur had used it like a shield to defend her family more than she would admit to anyone. To focus attention on herself, when Bifur began to fray.

“Ah, well, we all know this great clod,” Óin said fondly, elbowing Glóin, “is gonna set up his son’s future right properly. And maybe I’ll finally have a chance to settle down and take on some apprentices.”

“I know what Dori’ll do,” piped in Nori, who was clinging onto a squirming Ori as if she’d caught a rambunctious pet. “Silks and teas, only the finest, imported from all—”

Dori’s indignant sniff cut her off.

“And you’ll just hoard yours, of course!”

Which set off an argument between the three siblings, with Ori holding her own against both her siblings’ biting tongues. Fíli and Kíli offered their own insight – the kinds of luxuries they’d buy for their beloved mother. Balin and Dwalin were too far away to hear, and turned from the others so that Bifur hadn’t a chance to read their lips, but Balin briefly touched the crown of her sister’s head with the tips of her fingers. The gesture was strange but also familiar, and had Bifur pressing her own hand against the top of her head, trying to recall just where...

She closed her eyes and saw warm orange behind the lids, matching the sound around her because at last, there was noise, warm noise, to break the silence. It filled up the old warrior’s chest to overflowing. So much so that when Bombur turned her question back on her, Bifur had no qualms about answering, though she might’ve felt a bit shy about it at any other time.

Instead of clamming up, she signed a single word.

‘Tutor’.

 

It was a long time before everyone quieted down and went to sleep. Bilbo didn’t particularly mind, except that as she listened to the Company discuss what they’d do with their shares of the treasure she felt more and more alone. What did a Hobbit need with some treasure anyway? And she was only slowing them down. What hurt was having finally begun to connect with these Dwarves, and then being firmly reminded that she wasn’t really a part of their group. But Thorin was right.

And Bilbo was afraid. Even being invited over to huddle with Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur didn’t abate that. It was true that everyone appeared to be rattled by the events on the mountainside, but they knew how to comfort one another. They were family. And the only person that might’ve understood how to help Bilbo, well… She was long gone.

Things would only get more dangerous. Thorin had nearly fallen off the mountain herself trying to save Bilbo. She was putting them all in more danger.

And as much as Bilbo tried to convince herself that it was these selfless reasons that she had to leave, the truth was that the ache of loneliness in her chest and the sharp prick of Thorin’s insults had a lot more to do with it. She was a fifty-year-old Hobbit, and she knew that acting like a brokenhearted tween was ridiculous for someone of her age, but Bilbo had never really wanted to be accepted by someone as badly as she wanted to be accepted, appreciated by the Company.

It was all Gandalf’s fault, no doubt, the blasted wizard. Talking Bilbo up to the Dwarves like she was something great instead of a middle-aged spinster. Even knowing that, Bilbo couldn’t help the feeling tugging at her to stay. Surely… She’d rushed out her door that day for a reason. Surely.

But one glance at Thorin had Bilbo rolling up her pack and setting off towards the mouth of the cave.

“Where d’you think you’re going?”

The Hobbit started, covering her mouth to prevent a sound from escaping, and turned her gaze on Bofur. He was smoking a pipe by the entrance to the cave, and for once his expression was serious.

“I—I’m going back to Rivendell,” she said firmly, twisting her hands like she had no idea what to do with them.

“No, no, you’ve come so far; you can’t turn back now, eh? You’re part of the company, you’re one of us,” Bofur protested, eyes dark and round, reminding Bilbo with a twist of the heart of a sad dog.

“I’m not though, am I,” she replied, voice catching a bit. “Thorin was right about me, I don’t belong here. I’m a Baggins, not a Took. I’m _not_ my mother, and I never should have pretended I _was_! I-I don’t know what I was thinking, leaving the Shire.”

 

**The conversation wakes her easily, because Thorin is a very light sleeper, and she shifts slightly as she listens to the burglar’s words.**

**Good riddance, Thorin thinks sharply and doesn’t know why it aches. Bilbo does not belong with them, and it’s all the better she knows that. She can go back to Rivendell and stay with her beloved _Elves_.**

**She doesn’t need to know the way Thorin’s heart had dropped like a stone into her stomach at the thought of her loss, how that worry boiled like acid in the Dwarf King’s belly. Because it wasn’t that fear that spurred Thorin’s sharp words.**

**She’d meant every one.**

 

“You're homesick,” Bofur said with an almost condescending sympathy that made Bilbo’s stomach turn sharply. “I understand.”

“No you don't,” Bilbo snapped at him, feeling hot and shameful tears fill her eyes. “You don't understand at all. None of you do. You're _Dwarves_. You're used to all-all this. To living on the road, never settling in one place, not relying on anyone. To _not belonging anywhere_!”

She regretted the words the moment they left her mouth and – if his expression was any indication – slapped Bofur full in the face. The wetness behind her eyes finally slipped down her cheeks, and Bilbo pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

“Oh, Bofur, I’m sorry, I—It’s just this… All of this, I-I didn’t mean—”             

But the Dwarf shook his head, then ducked it slightly to gesture at the rest of the Company.

“No,” he told her hoarsely, “you’re right. We don’t belong _anywhere_.”

The words sounded like they broke him, and Bilbo suddenly and violently wished her mother were there to smooth things over. To box her ears and assure Bofur that her daughter’s words had been spoken in a moment of intense, petulant foolishness.

“Oh, Bofur—”

But he just shook his head again.

“You’ve got a home, Bilbo. One you love with all your heart. And I wish you all the luck in the world,” he told her, squeezing her shoulder gently. “I really do.”

 

**Thorin can feel a cold spike pressing into her heart, though she knows nothing’s really there. She looks out over the Dwarrows around her, sleeping like the dead in this small cave in the middle of the Misty Mountains, and feels like an utter failure. It’s why she has to take back Erebor. She can’t let this be who they are, homeless, wanderers. The words are bitter in the shell of her ear, and more than ever she begrudges the Halfling her little hole in the ground, built with her father’s loving hands.**

**Bilbo Baggins has never known the pain of losing home. She cannot understand them.**

**And it shouldn’t hurt that she doesn’t.**

**What matters isn’t the burglar, it’s her people. The Dwarrows of the Company, though not all Thorin’s relations, and not all even originally her subjects, are willing to follow her. To call her king.**

**We _will_ have a home, she vows in that moment. No matter what has to be done.**

 

Bilbo stalled in her exit, torn, without words to offer the Dwarf looking at her with such kind eyes who was even managing a smile after all the hurtful things she had said to him.

“I-I’m so sorry, but you don’t need me,” she blurted. “You can take back your mountain—I’m no help to anyone.”

That said, she darted towards the opening of the cave again. But before she could take a step outside it, Bofur’s voice stopped her.

“What’s that?”

She glanced back at him, and saw he was gesturing to her hip with the hand holding his pipe. The Hobbit felt at her waist, hands fumbling over her little blade. And as she drew it from its sheath, she saw it was giving off a soft blue glow. She and Bofur locked gazes, eyes wide.

 

**Bofur and the burglar fall silent. And then a soft sound reaches Thorin’s ears.**

**The sand of the floor is falling away with a soft hissing. The Dwarf king’s heart pounds hard.**

**“Wake up!” she shouts roughly, trying to stand. “Wake up!”**

**And then she is falling.**


	15. Everything Unpleasant About the Misty Mountains Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company is captured, Bilbo almost gets herself killed, the Dwarves are interrogated, and a game of riddles begins.
> 
> The Misty Mountains are not doing much for Bilbo's estimation of mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this has been a long time coming. To be fair, I was trying to get through the Goblin Caves in a single chapter, but it's over 7000 words now so I've faild spectacularly. So. Here's part one of two or potentially three, and please look forward to some riddles next time! I've changed almost all of Bilbo's so hopefully you'll like what I've done with that section.

Nori awoke mid-fall to find herself sliding down a stone tube, surrounded by screaming Dwarrows. Shockingly, it wasn’t the strangest thing to ever happen to her. The sensation of slipping down through the tunnel was actually rather enjoyable, though it was tempered with the fact that, hey, they’d obviously fallen through a trap door. In the Misty Mountains. Which were filled with goblins.

The tube split several times, sending Dwarrows spinning in every direction. Nori was saved from a rather nasty collision with one of the splits thanks to Dori snagging the back of her tunic. Finally, the tunnel ended in a freefall that sent them all toppling into a sort of cage.

Nori didn’t get to enjoy the fact that she’d fallen directly on top of Dwalin as much as she’d have liked, however, because she was almost immediately squashed by Bombur.

And then the chittering and gnashing of teeth started. At first Nori wasn’t sure what to make of the skittery noises, the snarling. But as their Company was shoved and tossed to their feet, she finally saw ‘em: goblins. Their faces were twisted and diseased, covered in strange growths and open sores, and the thief had to swallow down the urge to retch. Fighting instincts came first.

She shoved back, tugged out a knife and slashed, even booted a few goblins right in the unmentionables. But they were a swarm, and each one she dispatched was replaced by two more. Nori glanced around, hurriedly. To keep track of her sisters, to look for an exit.

It was purely chance she caught the Hobbit’s surreptitious glance around, then her quick duck under the crowd. Nori gawked for a moment, but only just. Only an idiot’d give away an escape plan by staring like, well, an idiot.

So she looked forward again, stomped on a few more toes, and hoped Bilbo had an actual plan.

 

For only the hundredth time, Bilbo Baggins had decided to go the properly hobbity course of action and use her natural talent for going unnoticed. At least a head shorter than the rest of the Company, it was easy to see how the goblins would overlook her, so she ducked down and crouched, tucking in her head and arms to make herself a smaller target for stomping feet.

Soon, the entire procession was past her, with the goblins none the wiser. Ha! What would Thorin have to say about _that_? Bilbo felt a quick flare of pride in her chest. Now all she had to do was find a way to rescue those insufferable Dwarves.

But, without Gandalf… It was certainly a tall order.

Still, she thought with a hand on the hilt of her sword, perhaps it _was_ possible. The goblins certainly seemed cleverer than the trolls, but they weren’t quite up to snuff compared to her intellectual upbringing. And after all she had her little Elven sword to help – the glow had faded as the goblins trooped away, so it would be able to alert her.

Just as she was beginning to feel a little confident, her sword gleamed blue once more. But before she could react properly there was a shrieking cry and something landed on her back. It was no heavier than a fauntling, but the gnarled hands scrabbling at her throat were certainly those of a goblin. Bilbo could feel the sores on its skin and shuddered down to her boots.

“Get off!” she yelped instinctively, flailing and managing to knock it in the head with the hilt of her blade.

Though that did momentarily loosen the goblin’s grip, all it earned Bilbo in the long run was a deep, fanged bite into the junction of her neck and shoulder. The teeth sank in deep, and even as she managed purchase on the goblin to try and throw him over her head, a tiny part of her wondered how likely it was that she would garner a fever or worse from a wound like that.

So preoccupied with the goblin, she didn’t see the edge of the cliff, and backed straight off it. Bilbo yelped as she tumbled, end over end, into the dark, with her sword clattering after her, a bright blue line in the darkness.

If there was a thud when she hit the ground, she wasn’t awake to hear it.

 

When the bridge they were being shoved across opened out into the fullness of a cavern, Balin could feel the white hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Far from being dark, the place was fairly well-lit, but its rickety construction and the lights pebbled throughout the various stalactites and stalagmites reminded her incessantly of a termite mound. The shoving of lesioned hands against her good-quality quilted tunic was not much help on that front either. She had always hated goblins especially.

A horn blast burst through the air, and she could see Bifur, at the front of the line, clutch her hands to her head at the sound. For a moment, Balin thought the deafening noise was to signify their arrival, but then a clanging sort of rhythm began to echo through the air.

“Oh,” said a deep voice. “I feel a song coming on.”

And to the twanging and banging, a loud voice began to sing off-key about breaking and torture and all sorts of horrid goblin things. As the singing continued, the Company was herded onto a squarish platform, before a crude throne. Standing before it, dancing clumsily, was the biggest goblin Balin had had the misfortune to ever lay her eyes on in all her long years. By his staff and the crown of bones on his head, it was simple enough to deduce that he was the Great Goblin.

“Down down down in Goblin Town!” he roared, echoed by the cackling voices of scores of goblins perched along the walkways of the cavern.

At last, the abysmal singing ceased.

The silence as the Great Goblin returned to his throne was so complete that Balin heard the squelch and squeak of the goblin serving as its master’s stairs in horrific clarity.

“Catchy, isn’t it?” the great lump asked once he had attained his gruesome seat once more. “It’s one of my own compositions.”

Balin felt angry heat rising in her face, and shouldered forward through the Company a bit, to make herself heard.

“That’s not a song,” she sneered, even as Dwalin tugged on her tunic sleeve to try and pull her back. “It’s an _abomination_!”

A song was that tune Bilbo had taught them, about the man in the moon. A song was the low laments for the halls of Erebor. A song was war chants, for valor and strength, for protection and home. A _song_ had heart behind it, was not simply the off-key rendition of a desire to break and hurt others!

The rest of the Company all began to speak at once, and the goblins snarled. Then the Great Goblin cut in again, over the din.

“Abomination!” he said loudly, but sounding pleased. “Manipulation, _deviation_. That’s all you’re gonna find down here.”

Balin didn’t doubt that for a single moment.

 

“Who dares come armed into my kingdom?” the Great Goblin demanded hysterically. “Spies? Thieves? _Assassins_?”

“Dwarves, your malevolence,” a snaggletoothed goblin standing in front of the Company said.

“ _Dwarves_?” he shouted, as if it were some great shock.

Dwalin wondered if the Great Goblin was blind or just loved hearing himself talk. What other could the Company be but Dwarrows, anyway? What other race could they have possibly looked like to him?

“We found ‘em on the front porch,” the snaggletoothed goblin added, looking so Maker-damned proud of himself.

Ha! As if he’d done much of anything, the little runt. Dwalin could squish his skull in one fist, if she wanted. But with goblins it wasn’t size, as one might think from looking at their leader. The little blighters were just too many. A swarm.

“Don’t just stand there!” the Great Goblin ordered frantically, then. “Search them!”

And then there were scrabbling hands all over, ripping through Dwalin’s pack, groping her big arms, sickly little fingers digging in her boots and pulling out a knife. It was a habit she’d picked up from Dís, just as the lasses had, and she could see a goblin with armfuls of knives stepping away from Fíli. Just like her mother, that one. Finally, with a clatter, weapons and packs were deposited before the crowned lump.

One of the packs was dumped out, scattering what looked like candelabras and tableware all over the platform.

“I believe, milord, that they are in league with Elves!” said the eager goblin, the one Dwalin wanted to squish.

Dori immediately turned her head slowly to glare at Nori.

“Just a couple’a keepsakes,” the thief muttered, shrugging.

Dwalin, already on an emotional knife-edge from being captured by goblins, allowed herself a snort at Nori’s expense. Hysterical laughter sat on her tongue, begging for release, but Dwalin was too experienced of a warrior to let it out. They would be fine. They would. As long as no one did anything stupid. A long shot, with their Company, but still.

“What are Dwarves doing in my mountains?” the Great Goblin demanded at last, tossing the candelabra pinched between his fingers into the abyss.

Thorin made to step forward, as leader of the Company. Dwalin was, maddeningly, a pace too far back to stop her. However, as usual, Óin apparently decided she knew better than the king. The seer passed in front of Thorin and gave her a casual shove back by the shoulder.

“Don’t you worry, all, I’ll handle this,” she promised, voice low and sneering in a way that Dwalin knew meant she was about to become what Balin called ‘Obstinate’ and ‘Unpleasant’. Dwalin had better words for it: ‘damned foolish’.

“I want the truth!” demanded the Great Goblin, leaning back in his throne. “Warts and all!”

And if they hadn’t all been in mortal peril, and if she’d had something to throw – one of Nori’s candelabras, perhaps – Dwalin would have chucked it at the great boil’s face for making quite possibly the worst pun she had ever heard in all her long life. Wordplay had never been her strong suit, which most people expected, and Dwalin had a particular hatred for puns.

“You’ll have to speak up,” Óin sneered from the front of the group, cocking her head to the side and crossing her arms over her chest. “Your boys flattened my trumpet.”

“I’ll flatten more than your trumpet!” the Great Goblin roared, leaping to his feet and charging forward in a way that had Dwalin brandishing her bare fists, because Maker be damned if she’d stand by and let that disgusting pustule threaten _her_ family.

 

Seeing things get heated up, Bofur’s nervousness burst out of her in words.

“If it’s information you’re wanting,” she offered hurriedly, shoving Óin back, “It’s me you should speak to!”

That got him backing down nice and easy, thank the Maker. The lump lowered his fists and settled back in his chair – throne, whatever it was.

“Well,” Bofur began, and took a deep breath knowing she’d need it, “there we were on the road; well, I say a road, it was really more of a path, only not really even that, come to think about it, more like a track. So, anyway we were on this road, like a path, like a track… And then we weren’t!”

She shrugged, just like ‘well, no idea how that happened!’, and the Great Goblin wasn’t looking real pleased with that, so she hurried up on the last bit.

“Which is a problem,” Bofur finished lamely, “since we were supposed to be in Dunland last Tuesday.”

“We’re visiting distant relations there!” piped in Dori helpfully.

The others rushed to agree too, and Bofur was feeling pretty good with her explanation, so she chanced a glance around.

“Some in-laws on my mother’s si—”

“ _Shut up_!”

Bofur about leapt a good handwidth in the air. Seemed their chatter’d done nothing more than get the great lump angry with them. With a yank on her arm, Thorin’s doing, Bofur found herself back in the middle of the crowd of Dwarrows. Bombur bundled her in close right after.

“Oh, I’m _fine_ , Bom,” Bofur huffed, but he wasn’t having any of it.

He insisted on continuing to squish her to his side so she couldn’t get away from him.

 

Even as their Company tightened its ranks, their enemy was screaming orders. Dwalin held herself solid and wide in front of Thorin and the girls.

“If they will not talk, then they’ll squawk! Bring out the Mangler! The Bone-Breaker! Start with the youngest!” The Great Goblin proclaimed loudly, pointing a diseased sausage-finger at Ori.

The scribe bit her lip hard and seemed to be trying not to quake. Nori’s lip lifted in a silent, helpless snarl. She was a smart one, she'd know like Dwalin did that any objection on their part would only make things worse for Ori. Goblins loved inciting emotional pain as much as physical.

“Actually, I'm the youngest!”

Kíli pushed through the crowd of Dwarrows to step in front of Ori, and Dwalin thought her heart might split from the painful combination of pride and fear hammering against her ribs.

_Oh, my brave, sweet princess_ , she thought. Just like her Ma. Just like her aunt. A great big fool of a hero.

“Wait!”

Speaking of fools…

Dwalin’s hands twisted around air, anxious for an axe to wield – something, anything, to defend her king.

 

**Thorin steps forward; in front of Kíli, in front of Ori. Because she cannot, after they’d all by some miracle made it away from the stone giants, she just _can’t_ …**

**“Why, who is this I see before me? Greetings, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain,” the Great Goblin mocks. “But I forgot, you don’t _have_ a mountain. And you’re not a king. Which makes you… Nobody, really.”**

**Thorin bristles at that because it hurts. She has been a nobody for much of her life now, it’s true. But for this vile pustule to say such things to her, and with her in no position to do anything about it, shames her most of all. She has put up with insults and accusations in the cities of Men because she needed their custom. She needs and wants nothing from the goblins, except that they let her Company go.**

**“However, there is someone else who would be very interested in your head,” the Great Goblin says with a greasy smile. “ _Just_ the head, of course. Nothing attached.”**

**He makes a lazy gesture across his own neck, though the cutting gesture only serves to accentuate the bulbous goiter dangling down over his chest. The cavern swims before her eyes for a moment, and suddenly she is watching the head of her grandfather roll towards her. Thorin’s chest aches.**

**“You--!” she begins with a snarl, but the Goblin holds out a hand to cut her off almost immediately, and a spear is at her throat, forcing her to back away.**

**“Aren’t you curious who it is?” he asks.**

**The self-satisfied sneer on his face tells Thorin she doesn’t want to know. Unfortunately, the Company is at his mercy, and it’s clear the Great Goblin is eager to share.**

**“An old enemy of yours; a pale Orc, astride a white Warg.”**

**Everything tips sideways. Thorin has to close her eyes, just for a moment, to hold steady.**

**“Azog the Defiler is _dead_! He was slain in battle long ago!” she snaps back darkly, because she needs to believe it, but her voice is thick and fear curls in her belly. “I killed him myself!”**

**Her one victory, her vengeance. She has to believe it because if Azog is out there, her nieces are not safe. If Azog is alive, she could be leading Fíli and Kíli to the same fate Frerin and his son faced. She has already lost a nephew, she will not lose the last of Durin’s line.**

**“Oh, I’d say his defiling days are far from over,” the Great Goblin says with an ugly guffaw.**

The goblin king kicked a little, scuttling goblin at his feet and ordered it to send off a message to Azog. Kíli pressed her lips together harshly. If only she had her bow, if only she had an _arrow_! But she had neither, and instead watched uselessly as the goblin hopped into a basket rigged to a rope wire with its little message-board and wheeled away.

The ranks of stinking goblins closed in around them, and Kíli felt claustrophobia press in against her lungs. Her sister took her hand.

 

When Bilbo Baggins awoke, she was lying in a patch of giant mushrooms, and her head was spinning. She wondered briefly if they were edible, but decided not to chance it when she finally found the strength to move again. Her entire body throbbed with pain in time to her pulse, and it was distracting, sending her thoughts in whirls and pinwheels.

They finally yanked into focus at the panicked thought of her sword. It was missing from her hand. And if it had been lost in the darkness, what else…? Bilbo’s hand immediately went to her throat, fumbling for her parents’ rings. The sigh she released at finding them sliding under her sweaty palm, on their chain as they should have been, was painful and pulled a groan of pain from her lips.

It was matched by another groan. Agonizingly, Bilbo wrenched her head to the side to see that, just past the mushrooms, the little goblin that’d gotten its fangs in her was in a similar state as her – though decidedly worse off, since she’d had a slight cushion of mushrooms that it hadn’t. Good riddance.

And then the sound of hacking laughter reached her ears.

“Oh, yes, precious… Yes! Yes! Gollum.”

And then, through the mushrooms, she spied a gangly, grey-skinned creature approaching the goblin. After circling it a few times, it began pulling the goblin away with big hands wrapped around its ankles. However, the goblin only slid a few paces before it woke and flailed in a frantic fury.

Bilbo turned her head away as the spindly creature and the goblin tussled, squeezing her eyes shut. There was snarling, along with three rough _thud_ s, and then pleased tittering from the interloper. Bilbo cracked open her eyes to see it dragging the goblin’s limp body away. She only released her breath, in a pained whoosh of air, once she could no longer hear the strange creature.

Bilbo stood with some difficulty, back sore, and bent to grab her blade where its glow had, luckily, been covered by the large mushrooms. It was still lit, she realized belatedly. The goblin was still alive. Hopefully it would be enough to distract the strange, hacking being and allow Bilbo to make an escape. Thus, determined, the Hobbit strode forward. First she glanced up, at the height she’d fallen from – impossible to go back – and then forward, the only way out.

And then, after two steps, she stopped.

The blue light of her sword had caught on something small and round, and bounced back. Bilbo crouched and retrieved the object, noticing with a wince how scratched-up her knuckles were.

“A ring,” she murmured.

Though it was merely a simple golden band, something about the way it shone tugged at her. Like everything in the world narrowed in on that simple piece of jewelry – a void with that ring as its center. It sang like an Elf, but higher and wispier. And colder. A shiver rippled through her. Bilbo slipped the ring into her waistcoat pocket and patted it in reassurance before carrying on.

As she emerged from the tunnel into a massive cavern with an equally massive lake, strains of singing reached her ears. The creature was singing about eating the goblin! Bilbo thought she might be sick, and pressed a soft hand to her belly, squeezing her eyes shut. There were two loud thwacks. Then the glow of Bilbo’s little sword flickered, twice, and winked out. The Hobbit gulped silently and clutched the hilt tighter.

_Bilbo Baggins_ , she thought with a dizzied pulse, _what have you gotten yourself into?_

Propelled to foolishness by her fear, she peeked out from behind the boulder again. But the shape on the little island in the middle of the underground lake had gone. Bilbo’s stomach sank into her feet. She looked slowly up.

There, perched atop the boulder she’d been hiding behind was the creature. She could see its face where she hadn’t before – dominated by two huge blue eyes like a fish’s, and a wide, wide mouth.

“What’s this, precious?” it asked in a guttural voice, tilting its head. “Not a goblinses, or an Elfs…”

Bilbo felt pinned by the two, bulbous blue eyes staring her down. As the creature made a move towards her, the Hobbit clumsily raised her little sword, holding it out as far from her body as possible, to extend the distance between them.

“What _is it_?” the creature snarled.

“B-Baggins!” Bilbo stammered, jolting. “M-my name is Bilbo Baggins! I’m a Hobbit of the Shire!”

Seeing it up close, Bilbo was filled, at once with two conflicting urges: the desire to swat at the gangly creature with a broom until it scuttled away, and the urge to feed it pies until it got back to a reasonable, healthy shape. Having neither pies nor a broom on hand, the Hobbit attempted to swallow those instincts down like a stone caught in her throat, and instead focused on holding her sword in a hopefully threatening manner and keeping her voice steady.

“Hobbitses?” the Gollum creature asked innocently. “We’ve tried batses, goblinses, and fishes, but never Hobbitses before… Is it… Tasty, precious…?”

Bilbo felt bile climbing up her throat and swallowed to tamp it down.

“Now, now see here!” she insisted, and found the words came out half-terrified and half in the tone she used to scold her younger cousins.

Still, it did not deter the hungry look in the creature’s eyes. Gollum inched forward, and Bilbo slashed her sword back and forth a bit to catch the very low light of the cave. It had the intended effect; Gollum scuttled backwards again, hissing.

“I, I just want to get out of this dratted cave, alright?” the Hobbit demanded, voice pitching up in desperation even as she tried to keep it steady. “No one has to get hurt! I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing at, but—”

That seemed to catch Gollum’s interest. And he – surely a he? – lit up like kindling.

“Game? We like games!” he volunteered to her.

“That, that’s lovely,” Bilbo replied anxiously. “Then how about you and I play one? And, ah, if I win, you’ll show me the way out of these caves?”

Gollum stared at her for a long and horrible moment, big blue eyes taking her in. Then an ugly smile spread over his face.

“And if we win, precious?” he asked, voice suddenly lower and darker than before.

His eyes, though it was hard to tell in the low light, seemed different too. Sharper. As if… Bilbo had the horrible, unsettling feeling that she was talking to two different creatures in the same body.

“Oh, that’s easy, precious,” Gollum answered himself suddenly in the bright voice again. “If we win, then we eats the Baggins.”

Bilbo chilled all the way down to her furry toes. But what else was she going to do? So she nodded her agreement, torn between the annoying voice reminding her she could have been sitting in her armchair reading a good book and not bumped up in a cold dratted cave, the bone-chilling terror of potentially being eaten, and the part of her still unable to process that as a reality.

“Fair enough,” she conceded, the words tasting thick and off in her mouth.

 

**There isn’t much to do but stand in a tight cluster and wait – wait for death, wait for the reappearance of the pale face that still haunts Thorin’s nightmares, wait for the torturous sounds of her nieces and cousins and kinfolk and subjects being slaughtered. There should still be a way out, there has to be, but weaponless and surrounded by thousands of goblins Thorin has no idea what it might be. And so in the absence of anything remotely useful to do, she joins Dwalin in glaring down the goblin sifting through their weapons.**

**And then, with a clatter, Thorin’s Elvish blade – the one from the Troll hoard, Orcrist – slides free of its sheath, glittering and glowing even in the low light. The goblins shriek, all of them, even to the edges of the ramshackle nest of a city, drawing back in fear.**

**“I know that sword!” the Great Goblin cries, voice wobbling in an extremely satisfying way. “The Goblin-Cleaver! The Biter! The blade that sliced a thousand necks!”**

**But the dark glee Thorin feels over his fear is immediately snuffed as the goblins surrounding them shriek, dealing lashes at the Company from all sides with whips, the unarmed leaping and clawing. Their fear has made them angrier, crueler – something she ought to have conceived before falling prey so something as naïve and simple as vengeful amusement. A lash catches Thorin full in the face, striking into the meat of her cheek and drawing blood that drips down her neck. The sting disorients her, but she can still fuzzily see Dwalin and Balin drawing Fíli and Kíli between them, Bombur curling up around his sister, Glóin, Dori, and Nori stepping in front of Ori, Bifur and Óin attempting to shove one another to the middle, away from the whips.**

**“Slash them!” the Great Goblin screams above the din. “Beat them! Kill them all! And bring me his head!”**

**She wants to do something, beyond the pulsing of the wound in her face there must be an option, something—**

**But before she can come up with an answer, Thorin finds her shoulder and hip hitting the wood of the platform with a great and painful crash. A goblin sits above her, armed with a crude-looking knife. From the corner of her eye, Thorin can see Fíli try to shove past Balin’s protective grip, in vain.**

**And then, everything stops.**

**The burst of power is a great muffled roar. It washes over her with a bright light, but seems to do more damage to the goblins, flinging them aside. The weight on Thorin’s chest is gone, and her ears are ringing, but she is a warrior so she rolls to her feet as quickly as possible.**

**“Take up arms and fight!” commands a gruff, blissfully familiar voice.**

**Tharkûn.**

**With a roar, Thorin snatches up her glowing Elvish sword and cleaves a goblin clean in two.**


	16. Everything Unpleasant About the Misty Mountains Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riddles are exchanged, the Dwarves bravely turn their tails and flee, and we finally get out of that Mahal-damned mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this took a while. The riddles were... Ridiculously hard to sandwich into the narrative around them for some reason. Anyway, here we go. We are so, so very close to the end of AUJ - just one more chapter, with any luck. Bilbo will find out her, ahem, gender assumptions are incorrect right at the beginning of DoS, so please stick around, its sure to be amusing! 
> 
> There's a lot of Bilbo in this, but there's a lot of riddles, so it just sort of happened that way. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's still following, and I'll try(?) to be more prompt with my publishing!

“We will go first!” Gollum demanded, narrowing his huge blue eyes, and Bilbo saw no reason to disagree with him.

“Yes, yes, alright,” she said quickly, nodding. “Go ahead.”

With a sly, wide smile, Gollum began.

“ _What has roots as nobody sees,_

_Is taller than trees,_

_Up, up, up it goes_

_And yet never grows?_ ”

It only took Bilbo half a second to think of the answer, encompassed by it as she was.

“A mountain,” she replied, taking careful note of the way Gollum snarled and gnashed his few teeth at her correct answer.

It was that, then, perhaps, which inspired her next riddle. The morbid refusal of her mind to stop focusing on the cave-dweller’s terrible mouth.

“ _Th-thirty white horses on a red hill._

_First they stamp, then they champ, then they stand still._ ”

But it seemed her riddle was just as simple for him as his had been for her. Gollum had stuck his fingers in his mouth while he listened, and hurriedly pulled them out upon the realization that he’d been touching the answer all along.

“Teeth!” he cried, overjoyed, and then his voice darkened and lowered again. “But we only have… Nine.”

Nine teeth he was likely planning on using on her, Bilbo had no doubt! It sent a shudder racing up and down her spine.

“Y-yes, yes, quite correct,” she agreed. “Now, now then, it’s your turn, isn’t it? Go ahead.”

Gollum flexed his long fingers before speaking, and Bilbo tried not to gulp.

“ _Voiceless it cries,_

_Wingless, flutters,_

_Toothless, bites,_

_Mouthless, mutters._ ”

Voiceless, wingless, toothless, mouthless… There were so many things the answer didn’t have. And that was what tipped Bilbo off. Something _insubstantial_. Something like…

“The wind!” she exclaimed. “It’s the wind! Of course it is.”

Gollum dared to prowl a little closer, and Bilbo backed into the rock behind her, bringing up her sword again.

“Ah, ah, _a-at nighttime I come without being fetched,_

_By daylight I’m lost without being stolen._

_Like a diamond,_

_But not a jewel._ ”

That seemed to puzzle the creature, and Bilbo tapped her foot on the ground nervously as she watched him pace and snap to himself.

“Nighttime, lost, stolen… Oh, precious, it’s tricksy…”

After several long moments of this, Bilbo chanced speaking up, though her voice squeaked a bit in her throat.

“Do—do you give up?”

Gollum shook his head wildly, and splashed a hand in the water of the underground lake. And then he looked like he had an idea. Tilting his head slyly, he peered up at her.

“Is it… Stars, precious?”

Bilbo let out a deflated sigh.

“Yes,” she admitted. “Yes it is, very good. Go on, then.”

Gollum pondered but a moment, prodding idly at one of his teeth with a finger, and then spoke.

“ _It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,_

_Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt._

_It lies behind stars and under hills,_

_And empty holes it fills._

_It comes first and follows after,_

_Ends life, kills laughter._ ”

The answer, of course, was what shrouded her sight. Standing in the darkness, in a dark cave, in a hole beneath a mountain, it was simple. Bilbo was beginning to suspect there was a sort of pattern to the themes of Gollum’s riddles. That is, the things all around them – the mountain, the wind (or, rather, the slight breeze off the underground lake), the dark.

“It’s darkness,” she answered promptly, feeling quite proud of herself.

In line with her theory, Bilbo decided to pose Gollum one of the most domestic, homey riddles she knew. One her mother had taught her over needlepoint, when they both needed a moment of rest from the bustle of their adventurous spirits. Pleased with herself, Bilbo let the tip of her sword drop a bit, and a slight smile cross her lips.

“ _An iron horse has a flaxen tail._

_The faster the horse runs,_

_The shorter his tail becomes._ ”

That _did_ seem to vex Gollum. He paced about, dashed a small rock against a larger one, even hit his fists against his head in what looked to be a worryingly painful manner. His voice pitched up and down as he paced.

“No, no, all wrong! Gollum,” he hacked. “Ooh, precious, it thinks it has us stumped…”

Then Gollum turned a bulbous blue eye on Bilbo, pulled back his lips from his few teeth in a soundless snarl. But the Hobbit couldn’t step back any further against the stone. So she held her ground and kept her stance wide.

“There’s nothing wrong with admitting defeat,” Bilbo pointed out, still safely behind her sword. “I’m sure there’s plenty in here to, to eat that isn’t me!”

 

Dwalin took the lead in their rush through Goblin Town. It only made sense, seeing as she was the biggest. She still didn’t like letting Thorin out of her sight. That annoyance was easy enough to use on the goblins. A stream of them rushed up the path towards them, and Dwalin’s eyes caught on the railing.

“Post!” she shouted, hacking into it with her axe and feeling it give somewhere far behind her.

With a roar, Dwalin took up the post and felt the Dwarrows behind her doing the same. Then she steered it back and forth to sweep aside waves of goblins. Left, right, left, right. As they swung around a corner, she dropped the post and heard it clatter down into the darkness.

 

It was the first time Ori had been able to get her hands on a real weapon for more than the few seconds it took Dori to remove it from her grasp – so at least the goblins were to thank for something. And Nori, smart and clever, who knew that Ori would need more than a slingshot to survive their escape from Goblin Town.

The heft of Dwalin’s war hammer was impressive. But, Ori proved with the slightest twinge of pride as she slammed three goblins from her path, she shared some of Dori’s formidable upper body strength. And even as she focused wholeheartedly on the battle before her, there was a burning heat zipping through her veins because it was _Dwalin’s_ weapon she was holding.

And surely, surely the warrior would recognize her after something like that? They were all fighting for their lives, and at last Ori was getting a chance to prove she was capable in combat. In terms of Dwarfish courting custom, that was – at the very least – impressive.

It was these happy ponderings that Ori used to bat away the thoughts of what had almost befallen their Company the way she batted away goblins from her path through the mountain.

 

Bilbo almost dared to hope that Gollum would surrender when he suddenly whirled about to face her. It was not to be, however.

“Needle and thread, precious! Yes, yes… Mother used to sew for us… And now we use goblinses’ bones to make our pocketses, yes…”

The Hobbit felt the hair on her feet stand on end. Gollum prowled about and Bilbo tracked him anxiously. Then he spoke.

“ _Alive without breath,_

_As cold as death,_

_Clad in mail never clinking,_

_Never thirsty, ever drinking._ ”

The slimy coldness of the poem was only matched by the environment around her, Bilbo thought rather spitefully to herself. But again, like Gollum’s other riddles, that made it all the easier. What hid in the dark, in the water in the dark, in silent chainmail? What always hid in the water, whether light or dark. The fish.

“It’s a fish, the answer is a fish,” said Bilbo absently, mind already on her next riddle.

“So it is, precious,” Gollum agreed.

It was the way he rocked on his hands and feet, almost catlike, a preparation to pounce, that threw Bilbo’s mind back into her situation.

“None of that now,” she told him sharply, gesturing a bit with her sword. “We’re having a nice game, aren’t we?”

But the gangly creature did not respond, only made a moody noise – vague assent, perhaps. Bilbo knew better than to push for more. Instead, she hurried on to her next riddle, to keep from riling Gollum more.

“ _Reaching stiffly for the sky,_

_I bare my fingers when it’s cold._

_In warmth I wear an emerald glove,_

_And in between I dress in gold._ ”

As he puzzled over her riddle, Gollum lifted a hand to his face, studied his fingers, wiggled them. After that it was hardly any time at all before he announced his answer.

“Trees,” he hacked out. “Yes precious, trees is the answer.”

Her riddles, Bilbo realized, were getting simpler. Because she was stressed, and only the easy, rhyming ones came to mind. As long as Gollum’s riddles continued to follow a theme, though, she consoled herself, it didn’t matter. She’d stump him eventually. Surely, she would?

She couldn’t stomach the thought of being eaten, an abject fate like that. To come so far from home and die being ground up by nine crooked teeth… And when was it, she began to wonder – the incident with the trolls coming to mind – that the creatures of the wide world started deciding they’d like to eat her, anyway?

“You, you’re quite correct,” Bilbo said, and then pressed her lips tight together to keep in all the fear coiled inside her.

Gollum allowed himself a moment of victorious mirth, a slight, hopping and froglike dance, and then sent another riddle back Bilbo’s way.

“ _What always runs but never walks,_

_Often murmurs, never talks,_

_Has a bed but never sleeps,_

_Has a mouth but never eats?_ ”

It was the word ‘bed’ that gave it away. Bilbo had heard a similar riddle that relied on the same pun as a youth. One of her Brandybuck cousins, she thought. It was a riddle that belonged in Brandy Hall, most definitely, or along the banks of the Brandywine River. All this for the quite simple reason that ‘river’ was its answer.

“A river does,” she said at that thought, feeling a slight smile twitch at her mouth as she recalled home.

And then it was her turn again, and Bilbo hadn’t prepared for it. There had to be more riddles. Had to. She knew more than four riddles! Only it was cold and dark and so very far from everything quaint and proper and good for riddle-telling.

Bilbo cleared her throat and swiped the tip of her tongue over her lips as she thought, and when her reeling mind finally caught on a simple riddle Holman had told her once, she spoke.

“ _I am hidden in the dark,_

_No word from people will I hark,_

_I bide my time for I am young,_

_And shy and timid – but my tongue_

_Will soon peek out and break the grey_

_And add some color to the day_.”

Gollum took a long while to answer – though not as long as he had on her sewing riddle. He drummed his large fingers on the stone, but his unblinking eyes never left her. Bilbo shuffled her feet, for they had started to go cold on the wet stone of the cavern.

“Is it… Seedses?” Gollum questioned at last with a knowing look on his horrible face.

It took all of Bilbo’s gentility not to pull a frustrated scowl. She just nodded tightly. Their game had dragged on – it would have to end soon surely. She just had to… Keep going. Just a little longer. Yes, that was what she would do. Bilbo squared her shoulders as she waited for Gollum’s next riddle.

“ _This thing all things devours:_

_Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;_

_Gnaws iron, bites steel;_

_Grinds hard stones to meal;_

_Slays king, ruins town,_

_And beats high mountain down_.”

The answers to the others had seemed so simple that the riddle immediately stumped Bilbo. She squeezed her eyes shut – just for a moment – as she often had when working on a difficult problem in Bag End. But she was not in Bag End. When her eyes shot open again, Gollum was nowhere in sight. A cold sweat began to prick at Bilbo’s brow.

“Um,” she stammered. “Is it… Ah…”

But nothing came to mind. Not a single terrible monster or great warrior had done all those things. No one being that she could think of. She wracked her brain for the names of dragons, trolls.

“Oh, is it… Just a moment, I’m sure I’ll figure it out…” Bilbo said, raising her voice so it would carry to wherever Gollum was skulking.

There was no reply. That only made things worse. Bilbo thought her heart might leap out of her chest and flee the way she so desperately wanted to. The silence dragged on, but still she had no answer to the riddle.

Then Bilbo felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and she whirled about to find Gollum crouched on the rock above her. He took a vicious swipe at her, but she leapt back, pointing her little Elvish blade up at him in turn, a barrier.

“Well, precious?” asked Gollum slyly, flexing his fingers as though preparing them to wrap around her throat. “Does it have an answer? Or is it… Stuck?”

She just needed a moment longer, really, couldn’t he give her more— Oh!

“Time!” Bilbo gasped out, trembling all over. “The, the answer is time!”

Gollum’s wretched snarl and the slapping of his hands on the floor of the cave were horrible to behold, but they told her that she had in fact discovered the answer. Like a fauntling, he was throwing a tantrum. He leapt about and threw a few stones, which caused Bilbo to tighten her grip on the hilt of her sword. At last he stopped, and in a slow motion his head swiveled to face her, those bulbous blue eyes locked on her, pupil shrunk to almost nothing.

“Bagginses’ turn to ask,” he snarled quietly.

Bilbo swallowed. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. It was her turn… A riddle, a… Riddle…

“Ask us!” Gollum demanded, teeth bared, but Bilbo was still too terrified over her near miss to remember a single one.

She’d run through so many that she knew, and so quickly! She hadn’t thought that a cave-dweller would know so very many riddles.

In the midst of her panic, Bilbo pressed a hand into her pocket. Her finger brushed over the ring in her waistcoat. It was warm. The Hobbit blinked a few times, smoothing her thumb over the band. Everything felt odd, fuzzy… Her fear drained away, unnaturally.

“What… Have I got in my pocket…?” she mumbled to herself, straining to feel troubled about the surreal calming influence the bit of metal seemed to have on her.

Gollum began to hiss and spit.

“Not fair!” he accused in something of a whine. “It isn’t fair precious! It must give us three guesses!”

Bilbo blinked out of her thoughts, and realized that he’d taken her musing as a riddle.

“Oh,” she gasped, but quickly brought her free hand to her mouth to stifle the surprise. “Uh. W-well. Alright, three guesses it is. But if you can’t get it, you have to lead me out of here!”

There was no way he would guess it, surely. Surely. She lowered her hand into her pocket again and the soft, smooth gold reassured her. She was so close. And luck seemed to be on her side. If, of course, she could trust Gollum to keep his word, and she wasn’t quite sure she could. Even with that in mind, she couldn’t stop her heart from leaping as he wasted his first two guesses.

“Handses!” he had shouted immediately after their deal was struck.

But just before, the comforting heat of the ring in her pocket had burned, sending Bilbo’s hands into the air.

“Wrong,” she told him, heart pounding at the near miss.

Knife had been next, but the only blade Bilbo carried was in her hand already. Reminded of it, she lowered her arm to keep the sword serving as a barrier between them instead of just pointed in the air uselessly.

“String!” the creature scrambled for at last, voice pitched up with desperation. “Or nothing!”

A knot in Bilbo’s chest eased.

“That’s one guess over the limit,” she scolded amiably, flush with her own success. “And wrong both times.”

Had she not seen his fit earlier, Bilbo might have been startled by the crocodile tears coming from Gollum’s big blue eyes. Instead, they were almost amusing. Almost. She straightened her shoulders.

“Come on, it’s not as bad as all that, surely,” said Bilbo. “Now get up, you’ve promised to show me the way out.”

The tears vanished immediately, as did any resemblance with an ugly, crying child. Gollum’s mouth twisted into a fierce snarl.

“Oh did we, precious? Did we promise the Baggins?”

Bilbo narrowed her eyes.

“Yes, in fact, you did!” she snapped. “So don’t try and back out now, you gave your word.”

But he did not move to show Bilbo the path out of the mountain.

“What has it got in its pocketses?” Gollum asked instead, tone low and suspicious.

And the answer had seemed trivial in Bilbo’s head, but when she dipped her hand back into her pocket to touch the ring, a thrill of fear shot up her spine. She couldn’t tell him.

“That, that’s no business of yours, now. It doesn’t matter, so stop trying to stall.”

It was when he snarled under his breath and reached for something in the tattered cloth that served as his clothing that Bilbo recalled – a clink, clink, thud, so easily missed over the din of Gollum’s fight with the goblin – why perhaps it would be a bad idea to tell him just what was in her pocket. As he fumbled around searching around himself, on the rocks, splashing through the lake’s shallows, Bilbo pulled the ring from her pocket and cupped it in her left hand. That, in turn, she curled into a fist behind her back. But no matter how subtly she moved, Gollum’s attention finally rested on her.

His lips pulled back to show all nine of his jagged teeth.

“What,” he asked, “has it got, in its nasty… Little… Pocketses?!”

Bilbo didn’t wait around to see if he would leap at her. She just ran.

 

In the middle of their escape, her mother’s voice was the one that Kíli heard barking battle advice in her head. 

It had been Thorin who taught Kíli and Fíli to fight, yes – with copious aid from Dwalin – but it had been Dís that taught her daughters to fight dirty. Snatching up one of Goblin Town’s rickety ladders, Kíli grinned like knives. Then she slammed it forward, a makeshift battering ram, catching several goblins between the rungs.

“There’s a lass!” Óin roared approvingly from behind her, whacking a small goblin off course and into the gaping maw of the mountain’s endless caverns.

Then before them was a sudden gap in the hive-like architecture, and the goblins trapped by the ladder’s rungs toppled down into the dark with no path to hold their weight. Thankfully, Kíli thought to herself, feeling awfully clever, she had just the thing to bridge that gap. She dropped the ladder and continued over it – in carefully measured paces so her boots didn’t fall between the rungs – without a pause. The rumble of the Company’s steps followed after her, and then a thwack of axe on wood.

The running made everything a blur, something high-tension and fast-moving. Kíli found herself coiled like a spring, and the flow of battle made it difficult for her to keep her mind on any one thing. They wound through Goblin Town, but after the first few turns she hardly knew in which direction. There was chopping of ropes, smashing of platforms, and a rock rolled down the path in front of them, crushing goblins beneath its weight. Gandalf had not told them to turn around, or go a different direction, so Kíli just had to trust the wizard wasn’t steering them wrong. Fighting had to be priority one. She had never seen so many enemies in all her life.

Fíli, thankfully, stuck tight to her side.

They were crossing another gap when with a roar, the Great Goblin burst through the platform, right in front of Gandalf.

“You thought you could escape me?” he demanded in a roar.

Kíli, prone to what her sister called a ‘bad decision mouth’ when confronted with danger, was tempted to answer yes, although the question was aimed more at Gandalf than anyone. With all of them trapped on that single platform – goblins behind and their leader before – Gandalf had very little room to dodge. It only took a swing or two of the Great Goblin’s mace to send him crashing back into Nori and Ori.

“What are you going to do now wizard?” asked the Great Goblin, triumphant.

Kíli would’ve liked nothing better than to shoot him in the eye. But she was behind Ori and Fíli had hold of her arm. But Gandalf had it all well in hand – despite his lack of dragon-killing experience. He jabbed his staff upwards so it poked the Great Goblin in the eye: the left one, the one Kíli would’ve aimed for, and she felt a thrill of childish glee at that. That left the massive goblin hopping around and clutching his face, belly exposed. Gandalf made neat work of that too, slicing a line across the Great Goblin’s belly with his sword.

When the Great Goblin fell to his knees, Gandalf swiped the sword across his neck. The entire platform rattled under all that dead weight, though the Great Goblin toppled to the side soon after. The crack his fall had produced seemed small, after the roar of battle and the ugly enormity of the Great Goblin’s voice. But that was all it took, that one crack.

And then they were all screaming down the slope, into the mountain’s very depths.

 

Cries of “thief” echoed off the rocks around Bilbo, coming closer every second so that she could almost smell the rank, fishy breath of the creature chasing her. But the caverns were twisting and she had hit a dead end. Except for a hole that was more like a crack, which soon became her only way out as Gollum stalked down the tunnel. Bilbo all but threw herself inside it.

And then she let out a whimper of mixed fear and frustration. For the first time in her life, Bilbo cursed her Baggins good looks, because despite all the weight she had lost on the journey so far, despite how dangerously thin she had considered herself, she still had enough good Hobbity heft that she could not squeeze through the crevice. She could not even defend herself, with her sword in her right hand and therefore on the far side of the hole. And the creature, the _Gollum_ , was coming.

With one last push, Bilbo managed to pop out the other side in a scattering of brass waistcoat buttons. She stumbled, and fell, and the golden band she had picked up arced out of her pocket and through the air. Desperately, Bilbo held up her hand and in a one-in-a-million shot the ring slipped onto her longest finger.

Then Gollum was through the opening, and Bilbo curled up in the corner as if that would save her.

Except… It seemed… That it did.

Gollum flung his head from side to side, looking right past Bilbo as though she weren’t even there. Holding her breath, the Hobbit watched as he scuttled past her down the tunnel, snarling about thieves. All of her proper gentlehobbit instinct told her to wait until she was sure he was gone and compose herself. However, all of her mother’s good sense told Bilbo that Gollum was likely her ticket to finding the exit from the blasted mountains.

What would happen once she got out, she didn’t rightly know. Would she have to go back and rescue the Dwarves from the goblins? _Could_ she do that?

“Well,” she murmured with a sigh, curling her hand over her sword’s hilt reflexively. “We’ll figure that out when we get there, Bilbo.”

And so she started off after Gollum’s quickly fading cries.

 

With a shuddering crack, the platform wedged between two stone walls, its structure crumpling. The ride itself was jarring, and Bofur thought she might’ve hurt her neck in the tumble, but she was on top so at least she’d not been buried.

“Well, at least it could’ve been worse?” the miner offered, hand to her hat and attempting to be cheerful.

She was proven right on the spot and divested of all the air in her lungs at once, thanks to the falling blob of Great Goblin landing right atop her. He weighed like a mineshaft collapse, or somethin’ close, anyway. Lucky Bifur had gotten clear of the whole thing beforehand and was free to give her poor cousins a hand.

Though it took her and Bifur both to haul Bombur out from under the rubble.

Still, it looked like none of them were all the worse for wear, which was all Bofur cared about anyway. She got banged up often enough mining that a few bumps and a squashing weren’t enough to get her down. All the same, she had the nagging feeling something was missing, and had been for a while. Something important.

Hm. She tapped at her hat once, twice, adjusted her grip on the mattock she carried. No, nothing missing there. Hm.

 

Dwalin managed to drag herself out by sheer upper arm strength, and then she turned and tugged out the princess, who’d been lying in the rubble beside her. The rest of the Company was moving about to do the same.

“You alright, sis?” Glóin called, ripping planks away to uncover his sister.

As soon as she was free she shoved past him, grumbling, and that was how Dwalin knew she’d be fine. Long as she was grumping at her brother, the guards-dwarf could be sure her cousin was alright. It was when Óin began to go quiet and complacent that it was time to worry.

It was just as Dwalin bent to help dig more of their Company from the wooden rubble that Kíli gave a shout.

“Gandalf!” the princess called out nervously.

When Dwalin looked up, following Kíli’s gaze, there was a swarm of goblins – like a brackish wave – tearing down the slope towards them. The Company getting as far as they had was a credit both to the wizard and to the Company’s military prowess. But nothing short of several fully-armed Dwarf battalions would stand up to the sheer number of foes chasing them.

“There’s too many!” Dwalin shouted with this in mind, hauling Nori up from the wreckage by her shoulders. “We can’t fight them!”

The thief, her hair wispy as it drooped from its usual style in ragged clumps, had a strong but trembling grip on the leather crossing Dwalin’s chest, the front half of the harness for Grasper and Keeper. Ori, the lasses, Thorin, and Balin at least seemed relatively unharmed at a glance, but with Nori it was hard to tell – thieves could hide a lot.

“Only daylight can save us now! Hurry, on your feet!” the wizard shouted. “Run!”

Everyone took to their feet as quickly as they could. Dwalin kept her attention on Nori, though. Thankfully, after being heaved to her feet and given a push to run, the thief did manage to keep momentum and not fall. That was some relief.

The slap of flat goblin feet sounded like rolls of thunder behind them, but Dwalin could see light further down the tunnel.

 

As she crept up behind her unwitting guide, Bilbo’s heart fell. She was _so close_ , she could see her companions all rushing out into the golden glow of daylight. But Gollum was between her and them, and though he didn’t see her she was too afraid to pass him.

Every time she started forward, Gollum would shift and Bilbo would have to just shuffle right back again. She could not get out.

She had to get out.

Bilbo drew her blade, hand trembling just the slightest, and tried to steel herself to kill Gollum. One swing, and that was all. She just needed to take one swing.

And then the creature looked back, bulbous blue eyes tearful and lost. Bilbo’s heart dropped. And for a moment, though she had seen him rush out into the dying light, she heard Gandalf speaking to her.

_True strength is not knowing when to take a life, but when to spare it._

Gollum was terrifying, in a way. He had tried to kill her. But was it absolutely necessary for her to take his life? A sensuous, oozing voice at the base of her skull said _yes_. But everything else – from Bilbo’s pattering heart to her trembling fingers, said no.

She couldn’t do it.

Instead, she sheathed her blade and took four steps back to build up speed and ran for the exit. As she reached Gollum, and with a prayer to Yavanna, Bilbo closed her eyes and took a flying leap.

The side of her foot knocked against Gollum’s skull, but though he flailed, she cleared him.

And then she was being tackled to the ground of the cave, not three strides from its exit. Long fingers caught in the back of her already-damaged waistcoat, and tangled in the very ends of her curly hair. A vicious tug had Bilbo’s head snapping back, too sharply even for her to scream. With fumbling movements, those clammy hands wound around Bilbo’s throat from behind.

Her panic gave her strength though, and Bilbo had been a rambunctious youth, having wrestled with her Brandybuck cousins enough as a fauntling that she still recalled much of what she’d learned. With all her force, Bilbo rolled, squashing the brittle creature underneath her instead. She jabbed her elbows into his ribs and managed to twist herself so they were face to face. Even still, he was not winded for long, and the grip around her neck tightened again. With her improved position, however, she was able to take hold of his wrists, twisting them to force him to release her.

That done, Bilbo scrambled to her feet, trodding across Gollum’s writhing form in her hurry to escape. Then she ran as fast as she could out into the fading sun, followed by enraged screams. Gollum did not follow.

Bilbo’s heart lit as she rushed down the slope after the Company – her Company, in whose presence she would be glad to be again. Ridiculous, smelly, rude Dwarves they were, but she realized she’d come to care for them very much. And Gandalf’s sudden reappearance would help her heart settle after such an altogether horrifying experience as she’d had in the Misty Mountains.

As she approached, their voices clamored, Gandalf shouting at the Dwarves, though Bilbo was too busy catching her breath to worry about what. Just as she leaned against a tree, just out of sight, Thorin spoke.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” he snapped, voice low and angry. “Mistress Baggins has turned tail and fled for home! She has thought of nothing but her handkerchief and her books and her warm hearth since she first set out with us! We will not be seeing our Hobbit again. She is long gone.”

Bilbo’s heart ached in her chest, like a hand had fisted around it and squeezed. But as she pressed a hand to her sternum her fingers tangled in the chain of her necklace, the one that bore her parents’ marriage-bands. Setting her jaw and squeezing her eyes shut, the Hobbit tugged off the golden ring on her finger and stepped into sight before she lost her courage.

 

**“No. She’s isn’t.”**

**Thorin thinks her heart stops, but it has to be out of shock. She’d expected the Hobbit to be halfway back to Rivendell. Which is an absolute lie, she knows in her heart, as she was only holding onto that excuse because it was better than the much more likely alternative: that Bilbo was still trapped in the mountains with an army of goblins. Or worse, already dead. The rest of the Company seems just as shocked, though smiles have begun to spread across many of their faces.**

**“Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf says, and an almost tearful relief comes to the wizard’s face. “I have never been so glad to see anyone in my life.”**

**The Hobbit steps forward into the circle of the Company. Her waistcoat is hanging open, devoid of buttons, her knuckles are scraped and bloody. The skin around her neck is beginning to purple into the shape of large fingers. And Thorin has accused her of turning tail on their Company. Which by all rights she ought to have done – had almost done before their tumble into the caverns of the Misty Mountains. And Thorin does not understand.**

**“Bilbo!” Kíli exclaims joyfully. “We’d given you up!”**

**“How on earth did you get past the goblins?” adds Fíli, and Thorin can see a flicker of awe in her niece’s eyes.**

**Dwalin, hands on her hips, is shaking her head. There’s a smile of disbelief making its way across her mouth. Thorin still has no idea how to feel. She is used to outsiders letting her down. She knows well how to react to that. But the Halfling’s unexpected return has flummoxed her. Everything is upside down, and Thorin’s heart is thrumming oddly in her chest.**

**Bilbo does not respond to Fíli’s question, however. She laughs, uncomfortably, and one of her hands then flutters to her throat. The other she settles down at her side, thumb tucked into her waistcoat pocket. The Company continues to wait for an explanation that it seems will not be forthcoming.**

**“Well!” Tharkûn says at last, loudly, clapping his hands together. “What does it matter? She’s back!”**

**And by such unsubtle craft, the wizard seems to mean that to be the end of it. But Thorin is not satisfied. She’s not satisfied, and she doesn’t understand.**

**“It matters to me! I want to know. Why did you come back?” Thorin demands, fighting against the warm ache in her heart that wants her to rush forward and embrace their hapless Hobbit, pat her down for injuries.**

**It’s too soon to trust, or to truly care, she tells herself. Too soon. But the Halfling’s expression is troubled and a little bit obstinate in a way that demands attention.**

**“Look, I know—I know you doubt me, alright?” Bilbo insists huffily. “You have this whole time, from the moment you stepped into my home. And of course I think of my armchair and my books. It’s my home, there in Bag End. It’s the place I belong. This is a world I’m not used to, and I—”**

**The Hobbit’s glance corners to Bofur, reminding Thorin of the conversation she’d overheard in the cave between the two of them. _Yo_ _u’re used to all this! … To not belonging anywhere!_ When Thorin blinks away the memory, Bilbo is squaring her shoulders.**

**“And, and that’s why I came back. Because, you lot, you _are_ used to this. To feeling… Like you don’t belong. But it isn’t a world you should _have_ to be used to. Your home was taken away from you, and I… I'll help you take it back if I can.”**

**No one speaks. Thorin doesn’t think she’d be able to even if she thought she had something decent to say. The earnestness, the determination, on the Halfling’s face brings more faith in goodness to Thorin’s heart than she feels like she’s experienced in years. To come back, for that reason, to…**

**It’s the most any outsider has done for her, for her people, in a very long time.**

**“Mistress Baggins,” Thorin manages at last, but finds herself at a loss for words afterwards.**

**And then a howl fills the air that turns Thorin’s blood to ice.**


	17. Entirely Too Much Fire for Any Sensible Person, Honestly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nightmare comes calling, and Bilbo Baggins finds her courage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, folks, the end of AUJ. Whew. And to think, this all just started out with a few jotted sentences in the margins of a notebook. It'll take a while for our heroes to sort through everything they've experienced in the last couple of chapters, but let me tell you I am so ready to delve into all of it. It'll mean a delay in getting to Beorn, who is of course an absolute delight, but after some of the injuries our Company (by which I mostly mean Thorin) has sustained, the hurried pace of the movies seems a bit unrealistic.
> 
> Also. I'm not sure how many words the posted story has, but I'd like to inform you that I've just broken 100,000 words in total (aka counting the BotFA and DoS snippets I already have written).

As the wizard shouted at them all to run, Bifur began to realize that it was something he seemed to say a lot. She would have rather stood and fought – she still owed every Orc from Ered Luin to Mordor for the axe in her head and the mushy confusion of her mouth. But Bombur grabbed Bofur and Bofur hooked her mattock in Bifur’s belt and she was running again. There was a word for that. On the tip of Bifur’s tongue, a word that meant the feeling she was feeling, being pulled away from battle.

But running was more important.

Even though they couldn’t outrun Wargs for very long. It took until the sun – which had been glowing like a lit coal over the ridge of the mountain – set behind them for the first one to catch up. It had no rider. Bilbo, the smallest of them, was its target. But she was clever as well as tiny. Very…

There was a word for that too. Gamz.

The tiny Hobbit ducked behind a rock, and the beast went sailing harmlessly over her head. But it righted itself quickly, a hunter, and rushed her. Bilbo’s little sword – the tooth-picker, Bifur thought of it as – was drawn and the Warg impaled itself on the blade, brains first.

It was good first blood. And Bifur would have patted her on the back, or shoulder, would have signed her congratulations, but more of the pack were upon them and she lost herself to the itching red of battle. The weapons in her hands were unfamiliar, did not have the comfort of her boar spear. She did not know which of the Company they had originally belonged to. She would have known, before, would have remembered… But they were sharp, the axes in her hands. That was the point. They were sharp, and as focused as her.

Only Tharkûn’s shouts pulled her from her battle rage.

“Up into the trees, all of you!” he ordered, still leading the way with his long stride. “Come on, climb! Bilbo, climb!”

That drew Bifur’s attention to the Hobbit. Her little blade was still buried in the Warg’s head, and she was struggling to pull it out. But there was a host ready to come crashing down the hill towards her. She had to leave the sword behind, or she would be…

Meanwhile, the others were boosting one another into the trees. Bofur took a hop-skip-jump from a stone to Dwalin’s stony head, and into coarse branches. Bombur just hopped from the ground and clung, arms and legs around the lowest branch. Bifur tried to count, to keep them all in track, but the darkness and the branches and the rustling of her own mind made it difficult.

She got to twelve.

“They’re coming!” Thorin shouted, a warning, a command.

Bilbo was still struggling, had not given up on retrieving her tooth-picker.

That was when the snarl reached Bifur’s brain, and her arm shot out before the rest of her reacted, sending an axe flying into a Warg’s skull. She was down to one. That would have to be it. The Hobbit was too far, for Bifur alone to collect. Surely the little thing would realize her situation and rush away soon. She was gamz, but not foolishly so.

So Bifur clambered into Bofur’s tree, reaching higher and higher into the stars, away from the evil below.

 

Finally, Bilbo braced one of her feet against the Warg’s brow and tugged with all her might. Her sword slipped free and she stumbled backwards, but its blade was ominously blue. The Wargs and Orcs were almost upon her and she’d been so focused on her own foolishness she hadn’t even realized. All the branches were far above her head, much farther than any of the trees in Hobbiton. Backed up to a trunk, she looked around for anything she might use to climb.

Suddenly, a large hand yanked Bilbo into the tree by her collar. Once safely – if roughly – situated on a branch, she turned to see who her rescuer was, and found Dori staring back at her with a scowl on his face. Admittedly, the Hobbit did feel a bit stupid to have gotten her sword stuck in a Warg. But it was better to have gotten it back, wasn’t it?

Better to have a weapon on hand, if there were a horde of Orcs after them. She was still shaken up from her encounter with Gollum in the bowels of the mountain, from the massive size of the Warg she had slain. When a white Orc approached on a white Warg, her attention was torn violently in two. One half back, far, far back to the screaming winds of the Fell Winter and the hollow-eyed white wolves that had stalked the snow there. The other grounded further forward, a story by a campfire, and the look of fear and rage in Thorin’s eyes.

“Azog?!” she heard gasped from the tree next to her, and her heart lurched.

 

**Thorin hadn’t believed it. Or hadn’t wanted to. But he’s there, below her, like a nightmare rising from the back of her mind. The Defiler. A chill shoots through her arms, but she keeps her spine rigid, does not shudder because she is a king and she has to keep fear, keep _him_ , contained to her nightmares. The stomach-dropping realization that she has so utterly failed in destroying him will have to be boxed away.**

**And then that tongue begins spilling forth guttural words, Black Speech, an evil grin. Her name on those foul lips. She had wanted to know who was hunting her, had demanded that knowledge of Tharkûn, but she finds she no longer wants it. Not if that answer is Azog.**

**“It cannot be,” she tells herself hoarsely, though there is no way to deny it.**

**He survived. He is hunting her.**

**And he will hunt Fíli and Kíli, too. She’s led her nieces into the grasp of the very beast who took her father and grandfather from her. And he just smiles up at her like a monster, as if he’s known this day would come all along. Again, ugly words fall from his mouth and he gestures his underlings to fan out. Then his finger, one of only five left she notes with at least some satisfaction, is pointing lazily up at her. Calling her out. Threatening her.**

**She does not speak his foul language, but the message is unmistakable.**

**That one is mine.**

**Wargs leap up at the base of every tree, snapping their massive jaws, cracking branches, shaking trunks. The Company scrambles higher, as one, up the swaying trees. She counts, desperately searching out Fíli and Kíli, can see Dwalin doing the same. And then with a creak and a spray of sod, a tree begins to tip. Its occupants scramble towards her – Dori, Nori, Glóin, the Halfling. But almost as soon as they’ve found safe purchase, the tree Thorin is in begins to fall. Each tree crashes into the one next to it, and there is barely time to leap on before the chain continues – but the last tree holds.**

**At last they’re all clustered together in it, at the very edge of the cliff. Trapped. Azog before them, and a sheer drop behind.**

 

As Fíli anxiously ran a hand across her tunic, searching out knife handles, counting them – enough for the amount of targets below her? Not nearly – a flaming projectile shot over her head, blasting into the ground in front of a cluster of Wargs and sending them yelping and scattering back.

“Fíli!” Gandalf called out to her.

The shout was enough for her hands to react and catch what was dropped into them. Not expecting the heat, however, she juggled it back and forth a bit – a flaming pinecone? Even trapped against a cliff, the wizard was scheming. Which worked out for all of them. Next to Fíli, Bilbo had plucked up a pinecone of her own, and held it out to be lit. The spark of fire was quick to jump from one to the other, and then Fíli lobbed her pinecone at the nearest Warg. Her throw went wide, but it added to the blazing wall guarding them from Azog.

Azog.

She’d not heard much of Azanulbizar, not in detail. But that was, well, to be expected. It had been a horrible battle. One that lived in infamy. So many lives lost. The fires... Survivors didn’t like to speak of it. But she and Kíli had had nightmares in their childhood, of that day. And to see that nightmare come alive…

Words from weeks before echoed in her head.

_“You think that’s funny? You think a night raid by Orcs is a joke?”_

No. It wasn’t funny. Not in the least.

To have the evil of those long-ago dreams below her, with his eyes trained on Thorin…

Fíli threw every pinecone as hard as she could, and her fingers trembled with cold even as she cupped fire in her hands.

 

Bilbo hurled a flaming pinecone, striking a Warg right on its snout and sending it reeling back, fur blazing and crackling with sparks. The success made her grin a bit – though she’d only been renowned in Hobbiton for her uncanny ability to knock apples out of trees with a well-thrown stone, it seemed the talent served her in battle well enough.

Good.

They would need it.

Still, she cheered along with the others as the massive white Orc snarled his anger below them. They were still trapped in the tree, true, but every small victory was something. Gandalf had looked after them again. Bilbo felt a warm fondness for the grumpy old wizard fill her chest. He’d thrown her into a ridiculous danger – or more accurately, all but made her throw _herself_ – but he was protecting her and the Company too.

Which drew a sudden guilty weight to her belly. She hadn’t told him about the magic ring. She’d meant to, to make a story of it, her amazing exploits, to talk them into a story and out of her head… But only a startled laugh had come out. She hadn’t been able to tell him. Hadn’t wanted to.

That was… Probably not a good thing.

But before she could take the thought any further, there was a creak. And a groan. And a crack. And then their tree was swinging backwards off the edge of the cliff.

All the cheering turned to screams.

Bilbo kept one arm wrapped around the branch and took a tight hold around Fíli’s arm with the other as they fell back towards open air.

 

The tree stopped its descent with a jarring thud that nearly threw Dori from her purchase on the upper branches. And then there were hands around her right leg. Ori was shouting.

Ori.

Dori hardly managed to look down. There, clinging to her boot, was Ori. Her eyes were wide and fearful and every part of Dori wanted to reach down and comfort her, but it wasn’t possible. Not with her grip on the tree being the only thing holding them up. Fear shot through Dori like an arrow.

Still, her pragmatic mind kept scrambling on, and she tore her gaze away from Ori to search the branches for help. Nori was far down the tree from them – and though she was stronger than her frame suggested, Dori knew she wouldn’t have the strength to pull both Dori and Ori up. Dwalin was the most likely option, but she was in a precarious situation of her own, and adding her weight to the upper branches of the tree might only send them all toppling over the edge.

But the wizard…! He was close, he was already safely on the tree trunk…

“Mister Gandalf!” she called to him. “Help us!”

And then Dori’s hands slipped from the branch. She toppled, gripping empty air—

Until suddenly there was something else in her hand.

“Whoa!” she heard the wizard’s rough voice. “I’ve got you.”

Dori swung her left hand up to latch on to the staff she’d caught hold of with the right. Thank goodness, she thought with her heart pounding unevenly, that wizards carried staves and not something decidedly less useful. Dori squeezed her eyes shut, took a moment. She’d need to steady her breath as much as she could. She had to keep calm so that Ori could keep calm. She couldn’t look down at the drop below them – it would only make her dizzy and more likely to fall.

“Hold on, Ori!” Dori called down to her sister. “Just hold on!”

We’ll be alright, she wanted to say, but couldn’t force the words out. Despite being twice their height, Mister Gandalf was not nearly as dense as a Dwarf. He could hold them, keep them from falling…

But he couldn’t pull them to safety.

 

Balin knew. She knew the second Thorin found purchase on the trunk of the tree. The king’s eyes were flickering with the fire all around them. Her mouth was set, determined – an expression Balin had seen once on Thrór, so many years ago. The Elvish blade from the troll cave was gripped tightly in Thorin’s right hand. Her left arm she held rigid, parallel to the ground – drawing attention to her shield, the remnants of the oaken branch.

_No_ , Balin wanted to tell her. _Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this._

But she could only watch in horror as Thorin let out a snarl and charged down the trunk of the tree, straight at Azog astride his white Warg.

And again, Balin knew. She knew before it happened, could see it happen in her mind’s eye before it played out – the swipe of the Warg’s paw against Thorin’s torso, batting her aside. Thorin would have seen it too, were she in her right mind. Would have known that her own range was too short. But even after the fact, she only stood again, their indomitable king. She stood, but she couldn’t raise her shield in time.

The twisted, ugly mace in Azog’s hand met Thorin full in the cheek and threw her, again, to the ground.

 

Bilbo’s hand was still fixed tightly around Fíli’s wrist. And she couldn’t tell which of them was trembling more.

The white Warg clamped Thorin in its jaws and shook him like Bilbo had seen Shire hunting hounds shake rabbits they’d caught. Her stomach, already rattled by fear and the pain of her fall in the Misty Mountains, turned absolutely sour. Thorin at last managed to bash the Warg’s snout with the hilt of his sword, but all that earned him was being tossed to the ground with a heavy thud.

Balin cried out, a sharp, pained exclamation that cut through the flaming air. Dwalin scrambled to get onto the trunk, but his branch broke and he dangled helpless with a cry of dismay. There was no one to defend Thorin. No one who could reach the trunk of the tree, all hanging precariously. Fíli, too, though Bilbo had a hold of his wrist, was further from the trunk – and would have had to clamber over Bilbo and risk them both falling in order to rescue his uncle.

But then, perhaps…

Bilbo released Fíli’s hand. She lurched towards the trunk and found a foothold, somehow, and even under her weight the next branch did not break. With single-minded determination, the Hobbit hauled herself up until she had reached a place to safely stand.

 

**Thorin pulls in a painful breath, cursing her own frailty because she _cannot stand_. And as one of Azog’s underlings approaches, a wall of rage builds high in her chest. The Pale Orc sees himself as too high and mighty to even finish her off himself. One more shame to add to her failing line.**

**The Orc presses its blade to Thorin’s throat, lining up the blow. Desperate, she slams her stiff and injured right arm down onto the ground, unseeingly, to try and grasp Orcrist’s hilt, but there is only dirt beneath her palm. The Orc lifts its jagged sword, and Thorin closes her eyes and fights down an enraged sob.**

 

Her heart, which had been thrumming in her chest like a startled bird, stilled. She felt frozen, a rabbit overtaken by fear. But then her little sword – her letter-opener, some part of her brain added with terrified euphoria – was clenched, white-knuckled, in her hand. Before Bilbo had even realized she was running down the all-but-horizontal tree trunk, she was tackling the Orc that had raised its ugly blade to finish Thorin off.

Surprisingly, the tackle seemed to do the trick, and both Hobbit and Orc hit the ground hard. Then it was on top of her, but with a strength she was too distracted to be shocked by, she slashed at its arm and tackled it again as it stumbled back – knocking the Orc down and plunging her blade deep into its chest. Bilbo, blood pumping so loud in her ears she could hear nothing else, stabbed the Orc again and again until it stopped moving.

Her Baggins half would quail at the memory later, the overwhelming – almost feral – rage. But in that moment only one thing mattered: Thorin. They would not take Thorin from the Company, from his family, from Bilbo.

Azog, a snarl on his scarred face, approached on his white Warg. Stay back, _stay back_ , she thought sharply but did not have the breath to say it, swinging her little sword wildly and stumbling backwards. Azog would _not_ touch Thorin again. He _would not_!

 

**The blow never comes.**

**Thorin cracks open her eyes, fighting past the visions of dancing flame, and sees… Bilbo Baggins, tugging her little toothpick of a blade out of the Orc and stumbling back to plant her furry feet between Azog and Thorin. Even as she panics for the Halfling’s wellbeing, the Dwarf king’s eyes are easing shut against her will. The last thing she sees is Bilbo, trembling with nervous energy as Azog’s white Warg paces forward, flanked by two of its gray offspring that are also carrying Orcs. The last thing she hears is a rattling, too-loud snarl.**

 

And then Dwarven war cries split the crackling air as Fíli, Kíli, and Dwalin charged into battle. And seeing them, Bilbo’s heart rallied. She screamed and slashed at the closest Warg’s face, sending the creature rearing back with a howl of pain.

Against all odds, a triumphant laugh fell from Bilbo’s lips.

And then with a roar, the white Warg rammed its huge snout into her chest, tossing the Hobbit onto her back and knocking the air from her lungs. Even dazed as she was, Bilbo was able to see the angry grin spreading across Azog’s face, and it burned something primal inside her even as icy fear crashed through her veins.

Though her sword was still in her hand, the Warg had placed one huge paw on Bilbo, holding her down. The weight of it prevented her from taking any but the shallowest of breaths, and her ribs ached terribly. Squeezing her eyes shut, Bilbo tried to counteract the pain by recalling the broken arm she’d gotten in her tweens, fighting with one of the Hornblower boys. Really her situation was, was nothing compared to that… Although the white Warg also saw fit to add insult to injury by practically laving her with blood-tinged drool. Azog leaned forward to stare down at her more closely.

Bilbo stabbed his Warg’s paw.

The beast reeled back, tossing its rider, and Bilbo scrambled to her knees, pressing a hand to her ribcage. Unfortunately for her, the reprieve was short; Azog had recovered remarkably fast. He lunged towards her with a snarl.

There was an ear-shattering screech, and suddenly he had been tossed across the cliff. Bilbo only caught the brief flash of a massive wing.

 

“Hold on!” Nori called to her sisters, feeling foolish and useless.

They were already doing that. What she needed to do was _help them_! But no matter how far she leaned or stretched her arm, it was not enough to get even close to Dori – let alone Ori, with her tenuous grip on their elder sister’s boot.

As a last-ditch effort, the thief hooked her legs around a branch and swung downward, both arms outstretched. Still it was not enough.

And Dori’s grip was slipping.

Even as her face reddened, even as she huffed and puffed and squeezed her hand tighter, Dori was going to fall. She was going to fall and take Ori with her and Nori would be _alone_ —

“C-climb over me, Ori!” Dori ordered, even as she slid another few fingerwidths towards her doom.

But Ori just shook her head.

“I, I can’t! Dori, I can’t!”

And then they fell. No final words, not even a last glance up at Nori, they were just—

She had left to keep them safe, and she had come back to protect them. And she had failed miserably on both counts. Maybe, her mind flailed, maybe they had survived, maybe the canopy below had softened their fall enough to leave them alive. They were sturdy, they were strong. She had to be with them, in any case, had to…

Nori closed her eyes, untensed her legs, and let herself fall too.

Except she was immediately jerked to a stop by a hand around her left calf. Looking up, she saw the wizard staring down at her with his thick brows low over his eyes.

“That,” he said firmly. “Is not the answer.”

“What d’you know?!” snarled Nori. “They’re my, they—!”

Mouth twisted into an ugly frown, Gandalf gestured outwards with his staff. Out at nothing, the useless—

And then there were massive birds crowding the sky, and one of them had Dori and Ori on its back and all of the air came rushing back into Nori’s lungs at once, painfully. Her old scar flared, but she didn’t even care, didn’t give one flying—

They were _alive_.

 

Even as the Eagles were screaming through the air around them, Dwalin kept her eyes on Thorin. The king hadn’t moved, not since the Hobbit had got in front of her, in a foolhardy attempt to protect her that inadvertently brought Bilbo into Dwalin’s circle of trust. And so, Dwalin was the only one watching when one of the birds scooped Thorin into its talons, with the greatest care, and flew away with her.

She was the only one to see the symbol of her king’s epithet clatter down onto the stone of the cliff.

But before Dwalin could grab it, she was hurled in the air like no more than a sack of flour and found herself landing heavily on the back of an Eagle. The burning cliff and the oaken shield faded behind her, and so Dwalin let them go – material things were of no consequence, compared to lives. They had learned that lesson every day since the dragon.

Instead, she looked around, did a headcount as Eagles swooped here and there, gathering up bits and pieces of their wayward Company and dashing Wargs against rocks.

 

Nori wasn’t as bitter as she might have otherwise been when the wizard tossed her onto another Eagle without even half a warning, the old codger. All that mattered was that she was alive and her sisters were sitting safely on the back of a giant bird and Ori was laughing with both arms in the air while Dori held her tightly, too exhausted to even scold.

Then Nori’s thoughts turned to the rest of the Company. Bofur, the young prince and princess, their stupid king, the Hobbit… _Dwalin_. Guilt and panic crawled up her throat in equal measures, bringing bile with them, and she turned to try and find them all, to see if they were alright.

Her count quickly made it to fourteen, with Gandalf. But Thorin. Thorin was still missing. Until Nori noticed an Eagle with no one on its back, and someone clutched gently in its talons. Thorin looked like the dead. All the blood drained from Nori’s face.

“Thorin!” shouted Fíli, on an eagle near the back of the group.

But even at the sound of her name, spoken by her precious niece, the Dwarf king did not stir.

And so, as they flew on the backs of Eagles, past the Misty Mountains and towards the rising sun, the image of Thorin’s pale, unmoving form sat like a stone in Nori’s gut. She had seen death, they all had. And yet…

Their _king_.

Nori had never been much for bowing and curtsying to royalty, to ducking her head. But most nobles didn’t merit her respect. Foolhardy as Thorin’s quest was, her bullheadedness and determination were something to be admired. Nori’s scar burned under her tunic, and she pressed a hand against her belly.

Even as it hurt, it did remind her: she had survived. Not only goblins and Wargs and Orcs, not only trolls, not only the recent dangers of their quest to take back the mountain, but she had survived—

And if she could survive that, surely Thorin could survive her wounds. She was made of sturdy stuff. A king with mithril in her eyes.

 

After so much disappointment in her life – so much bitter loss – Balin did not dare to hope. Thorin’s skin was moonlight-pale in the growing dawn, still limp in the talons of an Eagle. Only the slap of cold wind on her face kept Balin’s tears at bay for the hours they soared through the sky. It was a magnificent experience, flight, but the dismal surety sitting in her belly like a stone meant Balin was in no state to appreciate it. Another king lost. Not only that, but the very king who had built their people a new home, who had worked her own hands raw to see the Dwarrows of Erebor restored to something like normalcy, something like peace.

And yet, as they were settled atop a massive, lone outcropping, their wizard looked concerned but unhurried. Untroubled. As if he knew something they did not.

“Thank you, my old friend,” Gandalf said warmly to one of the Eagles, and gave a bow.

In return, the Eagle dipped his head as well. Afterwards the entire host – flock? – flew off, back westward, banking north towards a set of steep, rocky ledges in the distance.

Then Gandalf took three quick strides over to where Thorin had been laid down.

“Thorin,” he said quietly; and then louder, “Thorin!”

There was no response. Balin’s shoulders drooped – for a moment, she had thought, perhaps…

The wizard leaned on his staff, knelt down, and passed a hand over Thorin’s closed eyes while the rest of the Company settled into balance on solid ground once again.

And then a breath startled from Thorin’s lungs, and her eyes flew open.

 

**“The Halfling?” Thorin gasps out as soon as her vision focuses.**

**Gandalf smiles.**

**“It’s alright. Bilbo is here, she’s quite safe,” he says, stepping out of the way to let the Dwarf see for herself.**

**And there she is, dirty and mussed and splattered with Orc blood, her curly hair loose and tangled, looking _mildly concerned_. Rage seizes Thorin’s heart in the absence of fear and she can hardly breathe for it. This Halfling, this, this soft, gentrified _milkmaid_ has the nerve to just _stand there_ like she wasn’t about to become a Warg’s snack the last time Thorin saw her! Like she hadn’t been waving her _Mahal-damned toothpick sword_ at _Azog the Defiler_!**

Thorin’s blue eyes locked on Bilbo, and he eased himself up in an attempt to stand. It took the combined efforts of Dwalin and Kíli to steady the king as he stumbled to his feet.

“ _You_ ,” Thorin snarled, voice low and rasping and dangerous. “What were you _doing_? You nearly got yourself _killed_!”

Bilbo opened her mouth to protest but could not find the words. Though she felt firmly in her core that she had no reason for shame, the intensity of Thorin’s glare made the Hobbit avert her eyes to somewhere just over his right shoulder.

“Did I not say that you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the Wild? That you had no place amongst us?”

Tension built up in Bilbo’s chest like a stone, and she waited for the final blow. For Thorin to send her from the Company’s sight. And then Bilbo’s cheek was pressed against fur and armor and rough blue fabric, and she felt warm and protected.

“I have never been so wrong in all my life.”

It took a moment to realize that the bands of heat pressing into her were Thorin Oakenshield’s arms. With a gasp of air, Bilbo swallowed down her tears and hugged back, pulling the Dwarf king even closer with all the strength left in her trembling arms. The Company cheered.

“I am sorry,” Thorin said quietly as they pulled back from each other. “For having doubted you, Mistress Baggins.”

She just shrugged, thinking suddenly of the Sackville-Bagginses, of Holman Greenhand, of the quiet and unassuming life she’d lived in the Shire. The thought of what ghastly things her neighbors might say about her appearance now had laughter on Bilbo’s lips.

“No I, I rather think I would have doubted me too, quite honestly,” she said, trying to card a hand through her hair and getting her fingers hopelessly tangled in the unruly stuff for several embarrassing seconds. “I, um. I'm here now, and I'm staying, and I'll do my best, but... I’m not my mother. And I’m not a hero, or a warrior, or, well… Not even a proper burglar.”

At that she offered a sardonic glance Gandalf’s way, and the wizard had the decency to take the joke with a smile. Balin, near the middle of the group, shot Bilbo a wink for her cheek. It was in the middle of an exhale that might have been a laugh that Thorin went utterly silent. He placed a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, then strode past her, towards the edge of the rock they stood on.

Curious, Bilbo followed his gaze and found herself gaping.

On the horizon, looking no taller than a finger from their distance but jutting into the sky like a spear, was a mountain.

“Is,” Bilbo stammered, taking a tiny step forward. “Is that it? Is that your—?”

Suddenly their goal seemed a little more real. She was looking at the Dwarves’ mountain. She could see it with her own two eyes, in reality instead of inked onto a beautiful map. They were still so, so far away, but it was _there_. Their goal, their—

“Yes indeed, dear Bilbo. Your mother would envy you a sight like this, I think. That is the Lonely Mountain – Erebor,” Gandalf confirmed, leaning on his staff and putting his free arm around Bilbo’s shoulders. “Last of the great Dwarf-kingdoms of Middle Earth.”

“Our home,” Thorin said, and in a voice so reverent that Bilbo’s heart overflowed.

As if to crown the moment, a bird flitted by, trilling cheerfully.

“Look, a raven!” Óin called suddenly from behind them. “The birds are returning to the mountain! Just as I said!”

The bird continued to sing as it flew, dipping occasionally but headed straight as an arrow, towards the distant peak of Erebor. It didn’t look like any raven or crow Bilbo had ever seen, but she was too elated to say anything.

Gandalf, it seemed, had no such qualms.

“That, my dear Óin, is a thrush,” commented the wizard, leaning fully on his staff as Bilbo broke away to stand next to Thorin.

The healer huffed and puffed incoherently, at which Thorin gave a fond smile.

“But we’ll take it as a sign,” the Dwarf king insisted, and Bilbo thought that if he was so placating with the Elves they might have got along. “A good omen.”

And it did seem that way. The word ‘thrush’ hummed in Bilbo’s chest – familiar, somehow.

Then she recalled the words of the map. ‘When the thrush knocks…’

Maybe their thrush would be there at the Lonely Mountain when the Company arrived. Waiting for them. It was heartening.

“You’re right,” she agreed with Thorin at last. “I do believe the worst is behind us.”

And with the sun rising golden over Erebor, it certainly seemed that way – she’d come so far, past trolls and Orcs and goblins and Wargs… She’d gained the Company’s respect and trust. She’d proven herself, to herself. Bilbo dipped her hand in her waistcoat pocket to run a finger over the hot, smooth band of the magic ring inside.

Really, a dragon seemed so small and fanciful after what she’d already achieved.


	18. I, For One, Was Not Expecting That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company unknowingly enters another movie, and Bilbo makes a startling revelation about her companions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this took... Forever. I completely fell out of my Hobbit obsession, so please forgive me for the delay. I still love this story -- and it's the longest one I've ever written so I'm pretty invested in completing it. The next couple of chapters should all be relatively new, non-movie-scene content, so please look forward to it, even if it takes a while...

When Thorin turned back towards the rest of the Company, she wobbled. Which made sense, Óin considered grumpily, as she’d been nearly dead only a few minutes before. The Hobbit fluttered at Thorin’s side, wanting to help but too small to bear the weight of a Dwarf. Without a word, Óin hauled Thorin’s arm over her shoulder. Dwalin was next to them in an instant, too, steadying their king’s weight on the other side. They were, the both of them, well-used to taking care of Thorin and her stubborn refusal to listen to sound medical advice.

“I’m fine,” Thorin insisted with her I’m-king-don’t-you-dare-touch-me voice, and was summarily ignored.

That, thought Óin, was the benefit of failing hearing and rancid goblins smashing your ear trumpet. Ignoring stupid remarks. Dwalin was not as well-versed in social niceties like ignoring people.

“You took a mace to the jaw,” she snapped. “ _And_ had a bite taken outta ya by a Warg.”

“I said, I am perfectly—”

“Thorin,” interrupted Balin, and as usual she was the only one who could get their stubborn king to see reason – with little more than a disappointed look, no less.

“We have some time to rest,” Tharkûn added, for the benefit of all of them but with his eyes on the Hobbit, and Óin made a note to bother the little thing out of her shirt to see if any of her ribs were broken. “And I think it would be wise to attend to any injuries we’ve incurred in the mountains.”

Óin’s determination to see to the Hobbit as well was strengthened by the guilty grimace on Miss Baggins’s face. But Thorin was the worst off of them all, and she needed to be seen to first. Most of the medical supplies had been lost in the mountains – _Maker-damned goblins_ – but the thing about Dwarrows was that they were good at hiding things on their person. She’d once seen her brother, searched down to his last layer, still manage to produce enough gold from his beard to buy three ponies. In similar fashion, Óin left Dwalin to hold up their weakened king and gathered bandages, salves, and medicine to relieve pain from various hidden pockets until she thought she had enough.

“Alright, Thorin, take it off.”

With a killing glare on her face, Thorin undid her belt and tugged open her tunic, disrobing with all the savagery of an angry dwarfling. Pouting, that’s all it was. They had a king that pouted. And Óin had to keep to those snide thoughts because the new injuries littering her king’s body were the kind that might make a less experienced healer wince.

Aside from the bruise beginning to blacken the skin under Thorin’s beard and up her left cheek, her entire chest was all manner of unnatural colors. Though the Warg’s teeth had not broken the finely-wrought Dwarven mail Thorin wore under her tunic, the pressure had caused it to bite into her skin, leaving contusions and lacerations in the shape of jaws. After a quick examination it didn’t appear that any ribs were broken, but one or two might have cracked. There were gashes in her left arm in the shape of her shield’s grip, and like many of the others in the Company would, she had welts and cuts from the goblin whips. All of that was topped off with a concussion, no doubt from being shaken like a ragdoll.

It was a tall order with limited supplies, but Óin had surmised it would be. They were Dwarrows, after all. But Thorin was conscious, and cantankerous, and that was as good a sign as anything.

She set to work.

 

Bilbo had turned away while Thorin disrobed to afford him some privacy, but after seeing him so limp in the Eagle’s talons and the Company so worried about him, she couldn’t help but turn back to see the injuries he’d sustained. He had been laid out on his back on the flattest ground they could find at the top of the outcropping, so as not to jostle any of his wounds. Bilbo sucked in an uneven breath, eyes tracing the gnashing of fang marks scattered across Thorin’s torso.

“Thorin, you—” she began, meaning to comment on the nature of the injuries, to ask if there was any way she might help.

However, her brown eyes caught on the unexpectedly soft curves of the king’s chest. And, like a blathering idiot – a fool of a Took, perhaps – she blurted out something else instead.

“You’re a lady?”

There was an uncomfortable, pregnant pause. Óin made a loud throat-clearing noise and continued to work. Balin patted Bilbo gently on the shoulder, trying to hide a smile.

“Lass,” the white-bearded Dwarf said, “we’re _all_ female, save Bombur and Glóin. Did you not notice?”

That made the Hobbit whip her head to the side to gape at the Dwarf next to her.

“You’re _what_?” she squeaked. “Why did none of you tell me!”

“I don’t see how it was any of your business, burglar,” Thorin rumbled – though not with the malice Bilbo had come to expect.

“None of my… Well you might have saved us all the—the indignity of this moment, at least!”

But any response Thorin might have made was lost in a hiss as Óin rubbed salve on the cuts scattered across the Dwarf king’s bruising ribs.

“ _Mahal_ , can you not be more gentle about that?!”

Óin just met the king’s steely glare with indifference, gesturing vaguely at her – _her!_ – crushed ear trumpet.

“I _know_ you can hear me,” Thorin insisted angrily.

Balin’s face twitched into a fond smile. From a few paces away, Dwalin lifted a fist.

“Don’t be such a dwarfling, Thorin!” she – _she!_ – shouted.

Bilbo, for her part, was just trying to reorient herself in this new and confusing world of Dwarves. Sure, she had seen that Dwarven women had beards, as evidenced by Glóin’s locket, which he had reverently shown her halfway through their stint in Rivendell. But it hadn’t occurred to her that any of her companions besides Princess Kíli – who didn’t even have a proper beard, just a smattering of scruff! – _were_ Dwarf ladies! To find out that the entire time…

“You alright there, Bilbo?” Bofur asked with a cheeky grin, doffing her hat.

A strangled little squeak of indignation passed Bilbo’s lips. The sort of noise her mother would have teased her mercilessly for.

“You, you—… You! Eru save me from Dwarves!” the Hobbit screeched at last, tugging the curls on her head in frustration. “And you, Gandalf! You might’ve said something!”

The wizard’s shoulders hunched like a caught-out child, and he coughed on pipe smoke.

“Yes, well,” was all he offered when he’d regained the ability to speak, and the sparkle of young mischief in his eyes told Bilbo all she needed to know.

The Hobbit scrubbed her face with her hands and sighed loudly. Quick as a wink, the fight drained all out of her, and Bilbo hung her head.

“I think I need to sit down…”

And so she settled on the stone with her head in her hands, and thought long and hard about how she could have missed it. Things that had seemed so strange before slotted into place, one by one, like nails drumming Bilbo’s stupidity into her head. Bofur’s insistence that Bombur and Glóin were married, with children. Lord Elrond’s use of the word heir, instead of son. The offer by Kíli to bathe with her and the others. In fact, with Kíli in mind, it was that situation all over again but multiplied by _ten_. How humiliating…

What would her neighbors have said? Never mind that they would likely have made the exact same mistake, the point was it was against all sense of propriety and good Shire decency to misgender a person, even by accident. And yet, as before, no one seemed bothered. If anything, they were amused! It wasn’t an insult, Fíli and Kíli had told her, but Bilbo had thought they were attempting to spare her feelings.

The worst part was how stupidly obvious it was, once she got past the assumption that their company was comprised of Dwarf-men. It was so _easy_ to see the subtle differences – a slight variation in the shape of their cheekbones, their long dark lashes, the girlish cut of their brows and foreheads. Well, excepting Dwalin, who was probably the most masculine of the lot. But Yavanna, who would guess that any kind of female could grow such luxurious beards!

As Bilbo continued to stew, Gandalf settled down next to her. By the way he studiously did not stare at her, she knew she was about to get something of a lecture, and that only put her off more.

“You’re a very lovely person, Bilbo, and I am enormously fond of you, but I think you need more moments of impropriety in your life,” he said, proving her right. “You’ve become too comfortable in your assumptions.”

Well, he could just…

“I, for one, think _you_ could do with a bit _less_ impropriety in your life, Gandalf!” she snapped. “I, I mean how do you expect me to resolve this? It’s such an, an enormous _kerfuffle_ , all of it!”

“Oh, come now, Bilbo. I don’t think you’ll find any one of them all that bothered for your mistake,” said the wizard, gesturing out at the Dwarves with his pipe. “In fact, I think you’ll find there is a great deal of difference between the sensibilities of Hobbits and Dwarves.”

“How so?”

“You’ve just saved their king,” Gandalf pointed out. “To them, that is all that will matter. They are used to outsiders mistaking them for Dwarf-men – in fact, they count on it.”

Bilbo puffed up, indignation filling her chest.

“Well they shouldn’t have to be used to it!”

For a moment, there was no response. Gandalf cradled his pipe in both hands, shook his head, smiled.

“Hobbits,” he said, with a sort of fond resignation.

Bilbo just exhaled sharply through her nose and turned away from him. Wizards. Honestly.

But then it hit her… Just _why_ had she thought the Dwarves were all male, anyway…?

“Say!” she exclaimed all of a sudden, which startled the Company, who had gathered together for warmth while their burglar spaced out. “But you call Thorin the king, and Fíli the prince…”

Kíli, looking entirely too pleased with herself, slung an arm over Bilbo’s shoulders.

“What, you don’t know? Well, that’s easy!” she said. “Aunt Thorin is the King Under the Mountain, because there has to be a king, after all! And to become king, you have to have been a prince once, so Fíli’s the prince, of course. And since I’m not supposed to inherit the throne – like Mother – I get to be a princess!”

This explanation made absolutely no sense to Bilbo, but she surmised if she admitted such all she would get was a louder, slower version of the same. So the Hobbit, prudent as always, nodded her curly head and had done with it. Her mind was reeling enough as it was, there was no need to overthink things.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten you,” Óin said loudly, breaking Bilbo from her fog.

The grey-haired Dwarf had a finger pointed accusingly at Bilbo.

“Me?” she asked, and found her hand itching up towards her throat.

Oh. Of course. As if to make up for lost time, the pains across her body flared to life. Her back ached from her fall into the mountain’s depths. Her ribs burned from being crushed by Azog the Defiler’s Warg. And her throat was probably purple and black from Gollum’s stranglehold. Óin’s unimpressed glare told Bilbo she had probably worked out at least half of this.

“Oh, right,” said Bilbo, feeling foolish and young under the healer’s scrutiny.

In the end, she and Thorin had matching bandages around their ribs, and Óin had given Bilbo something lovely to relieve the aches and pains of her injuries. With them both taken care of, the healer rotated through the rest of the Company, rooting out even the smallest of cuts.

 

Ori was half-tempted to shy away from Óin when the healer came to check on her, but the voice in the back of her head that sounded too much like Dori told her that would be stupid. They were finally somewhere they could afford the time to tend to their injuries without having to worry about an ambush. Hopefully.

But, it was only the sharp twinge of pain in her right arm that kept Ori’s thoughts from the way her stomach had leapt up into her mouth as she fell from the cliff. And she didn’t want to think about that, and she didn’t want Nori or Dori or, Durin forbid, Dwalin to notice. Ori had finally started proving herself on the journey, and she didn’t want to take two steps backwards by acting weak. So she waffled.

“Go on,” Nori muttered at last, careful to place her urging hand on Ori’s left shoulder blade. “Don’t be an idiot.”

The half-bitter smile on her sister’s face was what really convinced Ori. She’d seen that smile one too many times, and even if her sisters didn’t think her particularly perceptive, she knew what it meant. Nori was blaming herself for something – and, consequently, was sure Dori would blame her too. Ori did not want to be the cause of that smile. She offered her shoulder and arm to Óin.

 

Altogether, the entire Company had been banged up some way or other, and it was as unpleasant to think about how they might have gotten those injuries as it was nice to see everyone being taken care of.

And as Óin worked, those of the Company least injured – Bifur had made known in verbally uncertain but tonally unmistakable terms that Bilbo was _not_ one of these – began to catalogue what they had lost, what was left. Weapons had been mostly recovered, but their food was nearly gone – Bombur and Nori both had small amounts of jerky stashed on their persons and Balin had managed to snatch up a single satchel of water. Óin’s medical supplies would need to be replaced or restocked in case of further injury. The bedrolls were gone altogether.

And yet, it seemed, the Company had all been able to hold on to what was most important to them. The supplies were gone, but almost all of their personal effects remained. Thorin’s shield, however, had been lost in the fray with Azog. With precious little else to do, Bilbo noticed the Dwarf king touching her arm every so often as if she’d forgotten it was bare.

At last, with everything settled, they moved down the strange jutting cliff – carefully, and slowly, so as not to make anyone’s wounds worsen. On Óin’s orders Thorin was hefted onto a sort of makeshift stretcher between Dwalin and Bombur, made of a spare cloak Nori’d had stashed in her outer tunic. Going was slow. And the outcropping was shaped, Bilbo thought to herself, like a massive set of stairs. As though they were, all of them, the size of a child’s doll, moving through the house of a person. Part of her would wonder later just what creature might need steps so large, but at the time her mind was still giddy and tired. Thankfully she had Bofur at her side, chattering away and with an unintrusive hand on Bilbo’s forearm in case she stumbled. They stopped only a fraction of the way down, in a cave-like nook that was protected from the wind.

There was no wood for a fire, and no one wanted to risk it anyway. The jerky and water were passed around, with each person taking their equal share and their family members bullying them into it if they tried to skip themselves. For Bilbo it brought back memories of little fauntlings not allowed to leave the table until they’d eaten their carrots. Otherwise, the Company was nearly silent. No one wanted to talk about what they’d just come through – or that was how Bilbo felt.

The golden ring still burned in her pocket like a secret. She promised herself she would tell Gandalf about it in the morning.

“Get some rest, all of you,” the wizard said then, patting Óin’s shoulder. “I will keep watch tonight.”

It was a testament to how wearied they all were from the trials of the Misty Mountains that no one kicked up a fuss. Not even Thorin, who had been so incredibly paranoid in Rivendell. And Bilbo felt a bit flush with pride that she was beginning to understand things like that. Though Thorin’s words on the pass had cut deep… Her acceptance, praise even, had been a welcome balm. Bilbo had protected Thorin. She had helped the Company – no, more than that, she was part of it, even if she was still something of an outsider by race.

It was only as she curled up to sleep, blanketed by Dwalin’s borrowed cloak, that Bilbo suddenly wondered why they had told her any of what they had bout Thorin and Fíli’s titles, as little sense as it made to her. Even the friendliest of the Company had never strayed deeply into the topic of Dwarven culture with her. In fact, Kíli and Fíli had very specifically skirted around it. They were a secretive bunch at the best of times, and maybe Bilbo understood that. It wasn’t as if Hobbits weren’t a bit private themselves. So what had changed…?

She was yet to come to a conclusive answer by the time sleep fell over her.

 

Balin couldn’t sleep. Instead, she found herself seated next to Tharkûn at the mouth of the cave-like enclosure and smoking the wizard’s spare pipe.

“I thought we’d truly lost her,” she said, staring up at the stars and not sure why she felt the need to put such unlucky words out into the open air.

“Well,” said the wizard gruffly, not one to mince words, “we nearly did.”

A noise, half laugh and half cough, made its way past Balin’s throat. The scholar held her pipe aside, to make sure the startled exclamation didn’t turn into a coughing fit, exacerbated by pipe smoke. She shook her head, felt her fluffy white hair swish with the motion.

“What a mad venture,” Balin grumbled, her fingers tightening on the pipe.

She put it back to her lips and smoked angrily for a few minutes. Tharkûn said nothing. She trusted him, perhaps more than Thorin did, but Balin didn’t know what to make of the wizard half the time, and she wasn’t quite sure if she really liked him or not. It was his direct meddling that had set Thorin’s heart on Erebor once more – had sent all three heirs of Durin running off like… Like… But Balin couldn’t finish the thought. She trusted her king, respected her. She would stand by Thorin, whatever her decisions. No, Balin’s job was to make sure everything went as smoothly as she could make it go.

“But one well worth the danger, I think,” said Tharkûn, and it took Balin a few moments to remember what she had said that he was responding to.

“I certainly hope so,” the Dwarven scholar told him, finally looking over at her companion.

She hadn’t expected to see the pensive, troubled look on Tharkûn’s face. He blew out a stream of smoke that took the shape of a butterfly and flitted up towards the stars as it dispersed. Then he turned to meet her gaze with a sad, very old smile, and patted her on the shoulder.

“You ought to get some sleep, Balin.”

Something about the look on his face reminded her of Thraín, reminded her of the tired look her own mother got in her eyes in the years after Azanulbizar. Balin’s heart clenched. But she schooled her face into quiet pleasantry, and nodded.

“Thank you,” she said. “I think I’ll do that.”

And without another word, ignoring the muddle of conflicted feelings ringing in her head like a storm of hammers in a forge, she doused the pipe and handed it to Tharkûn. By the light of the stars, she made her way to the corner where Dwalin was curled up, eyes closed but not asleep.

“No midnight walks tonight, sister,” Balin murmured beneath her breath.

Dwalin snorted and rolled to face the other way, but Balin knew she had been right. There was a certain cant to Dwalin’s breathing when she was restless, when night made her feverish. When she was thinking about things best forgotten.

Balin pressed her forehead to her sister’s broad back, laced their fingers, and closed her eyes.

 

When she awoke the next morning, Bilbo found herself in the middle of a Dwarf pile. Fíli and Kíli had cuddled up to her left, each with a hand fisted in her ripped-up waistcoat. Bofur had somehow ended up using the Hobbit’s feet as a pillow – and while yes, they were furry, they were also absolutely filthy, as she’d not had a proper chance to wash them since Rivendell. Someone’s breath was blowing in her hair, and Bilbo tipped her head back to see Bifur on her – right, _her_ , they were all Dwarf-women, excepting Bombur and Glóin, it was still a bit of a shock to have not known for so long – side, curled up in a fetal position with her back facing outwards.

And then, with a sudden heat creeping up her cheeks, Bilbo noticed a familiar strong arm banded about her middle. Thorin. Thorin was holding her. Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit of the Shire, was being held by a Dwarf king. A very, very beautiful Dwarf king.

She looked very peaceful as she slept, much younger.

Bilbo could only imagine the sort of stupid, lovelorn gaze in her own eyes, and made to shift into a sitting position to alleviate some of the embarrassment. Yavanna forbid any of them saw her looking at Thorin like that. Or worse, if Thorin herself did. It was just… Admiration. Something like that. Just that, well, it was hard to deny the strange, noble beauty that Thorin exuded. Which was absolutely and completely unfair. Even bashed around, splattered with mud, even after almost dying, she still managed to look regal. Commanding.

She looked like a figure of legend. But she wasn’t. Not that she didn’t deserve to have legends written about her. But, it was only that she was… More than that. She was an aunt who scolded her nieces. She was a leader trying to do the best for her people. She was a woman very often mistaken for a man. And she said things – hurtful things – that she regretted later. She was, to Bilbo, Thorin was…

Well, it didn’t matter.

Bilbo had taken Thorin’s words on the mountain to heart, but… Looking at the vulnerable strength in Thorin’s sleeping face, still feeling the heat of that large arm cast over her, Bilbo wondered if she’d actually… If perhaps…

She was beginning to understand that, just maybe, Thorin lashed out in anger when she was really feeling something else. Living up to a title like king had to be difficult, for anyone. Even Thorin. She wasn’t perfect. She was rude, and harsh, and mistrustful. But she was also honorable, and loyal, and she inspired the Company. And looking at Thorin in the weak light of the morning sun, Bilbo was beginning to understand what she had left Bag End for. What she was chasing after – the thing she had wanted. What she had been missing since the death of her mother. The thing she hadn’t thought she really believed was worth chasing after anymore.

The chance to be close to people again.

Bilbo had been flustered, indignant, appalled, that night in Bag End. But she hadn’t missed the way the Company acted around one another. Like a family. After learning more about their hardships, she wasn’t surprised they had banded together. Home, after all, could be people as well as a place. And they deserved both.

“Now, what’s that smile about, I wonder?”

 

Bofur couldn’t have helped herself. Not with Bilbo stroking the splayed-out strands of Thorin’s hair and wearin’ the softest forge-melted grin. She’d been jostled off her pillow – otherwise known as Bilbo’s feet – and it was the first thing she’d seen, that far-off look. And then the Hobbit’s big brown eyes.

“W-what, I, th-that is— _Bofur_!”

“At your service,” Bofur teased, dipping her head.

“Well I don’t want your service, thank you very much!” protested Bilbo.

But as she went to make her way to her feet in indignation, she was sent crashing back down onto her backside. The lasses had a good grip on her from one side, and Thorin from the other. And they just kept snoring on! Cuddled up to their Company’s Hobbit – dwarflings with a doll or blanket. Bofur was one to talk, though – she and Bifur had Bilbo bracketed as well. So the miner just grinned and popped her hat back onto her head.

“Oh, well, if you wanna just lie there all morning, be my guest,” Bofur teased.

Bilbo’s exasperation dropped right quick after that, and her big brown eyes went wide.

“W-wait! Bofur, now, that isn’t what I—”

With a wink, Bofur brought her finger to her lips. After all, it wouldn’t do to leave their Hobbit in such a predicament. The lasses were, well, affectionate, but Fíli’d hardly find it real dignified to wake up clutching at Bilbo like a babe. Say nothing of Thorin’s reaction… Well, it’d be best to avoid a scene, even if it’d be fun to watch.

“Now, Miss Bilbo, just you sit tight and I’ll have you out in a tick.”

With the firm touch she’d used as a dwarfling to pry Bombur’s chubby fingers off kitchen bits and bobs as he napped, Bofur freed Bilbo from their king and the lasses.

“Th-thanks,” the Hobbit said, voice low and shy.

“’T’s nothing,” Bofur waved away, and felt herself smiling a little smile instead of a big, wide one. “Don’t mention it, Bilbo.”

They stood there like that, and something in Bilbo’s eyes or the way her hair shone copper-bright in the morning sun made Bofur’s heart jump in her chest. The miner coughed into her gloved fist.

“How’s your, ah…”

Bilbo blinked, once or twice, and then looked down at herself.

“Oh, right,” the Hobbit said. “Right, yes. I feel much better, actually. I’ll have to thank Óin.”

Bofur’s quick eyes jumped around their group and picked out the missing members of the Company.

“Well, it looks like she ‘n Dori ‘n Glóin are up already,” noted the miner, “so you can tell her now. You want me t’ come with you?”

Bilbo’s smile went wide and sunny.

“Yes, I think I’d like that,” she said.

So they strolled on out into the blue morning together.


End file.
